World on Fire
by Reverberating Winds
Summary: It wasn't a war, otherwise there would have been two sides. Smoldering cities dot the once great continent of Europe and nations are wiped off the face of the earth by a single affirmation. And contrary to popular belief, not all is fair in love and war.
1. Chapter 1

World On Fire

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_Ashes, ashes, they all fall down…_

He was on a small, nondescript aircraft that shuddered violently not with turbulence but with age. Propellers thrummed steadily, thought he'd not be surprised if the plane took a sudden nosedive that brought him and the other passengers to their demise. In fact, he'd not be surprised—he'd be elated to die. The young man had never understood when people said "Life is pointless" but at that exact moment, he did. He questioned the existence of anything and everything, shaken—literally and figuratively—by a particular event that happened four hours ago. The haunting smell of smoke filled the plane, but the smoke rose and lingered in the air from the smoldering ruins of London, miles behind them. The orange glow of the burning city was visible when one turned around and pressed his face to the thin glass window. Ah, but it was behind him now, as was history, and that he'd not be able to change. The young man would not ever return, not in the near future, at least. His prayed hard for death to a god he didn't believe in, a strangely paradoxical but desperate action. May his life be cut short by glorious, divine intervention.

The plane gave a sudden drop and jolted unsteadily from side to side, though the man was thoroughly unbothered by this—he'd sailed the Seven Seas, from the rancorous North Sea to the calm waters of the Caribbean during a sunny day.

Arthur Kirkland let out a heavy sigh. London was ablaze. It wasn't his fault. His heart was heavy and he felt ill, but he could not look back at the glow without feeling an overwhelming need to vomit. Snivels and sniffles came from various parts of the dark plane, with only twenty or so passengers fortunate enough to take the last plane to God knows where. Arthur's stiff upper lip was unyielding to such emotion. Of all of them, he was hurting the most. The emotions would all unravel soon enough, like a carpet. A tug of a string was destructive, having a similar effect to a bomb's. Arthur let his eyes fall closed and leaned against the threadbare seat. Days had passed since he had closed his eyes for more than twenty minutes. Where was he headed? He did not know. By the looks of it, France—they flew southeast. Paris, Arthur hoped, if Paris hadn't been wiped off the face of the earth yet. Arthur allowed his consciousness to falter, and in that medium between sleep and awareness, inane thoughts bloomed and withered—but he remained in that state, tortured by dreams so realistic that they existed even after he opened his eyes, nightmarish illusions. It dawned on him—he was on flat ground. Arthur peered out the window. Paris was in shambles, razed to the ground with a few buildings and houses surviving, and even fewer survivors. Paris was not a land of dust, but wreckage was all over the place like a broken jigsaw puzzle. Among those pieces survivors milled around. The Eiffel tower leaned like the tower of Pisa, casting a long shadow that split the city in half, courtesy of the moon.

Arthur disembarked the plane and isolated himself from his fellow Britons, stepping over fresh bodies and wreckage as he ambled to Francis' house, just ahead. He avoided the gazes of all survivors. Arthur was not here to count the dead, he was here to…Arthur swore under his breath as another existentialist question arose. Why was he here, in Paris, his nemesis' territory? Arthur's boot hit a puddle of blood that had a color strikingly similar to that of a wine. Arthur snorted as he realized this was very appropriate, considering the face he was in that wino's territory. He approached Francis' mansion, intact but shrouded with cinders.

Arthur kicked the front door open, unwilling to wait for the lazy Francis to mosey over and open the door, giving a lengthy, mocking interrogation before letting him in. Arthur was desperate for sleep and had no choice but to remain in filthy Paris until further notice.

"Oh, bonjour, Arthur." Francis greeted. He was sprawled on the lounge in his living room; bottle of luxurious wine in hand and fresh tears glimmering on his cheeks. His judgment was warped by alcohol, though Arthur was stricken by how mournful Francis looked. The kind of sadness that went well beyond the superficialities of tears and knitted eyebrows, the type of grief that opened up a new wound that would fester with time.

"Francis." Arthur greeted curtly. Francis watched him coolly and wiped a few tears away with the tie that was undone around his neck. Arthur wanted to sling it off of Francis' neck and tie a noose for himself. His eyes strayed to the ornate chandelier that hung above them precariously. Arthur, resourceful by nature, was highly capable of committing suicide.

"Why are you here?" Francis asked blankly. His blue eyes were glassy, rimmed with red. No mentions of French magic, wine, sex, or any attempts to further irk the irritable Arthur.

"London is dead." Arthur mumbled, letting his heavy body to fall onto a dusty couch that groaned under his weight. He ran a hand through his ash blond hair, feeling sicker than ever. Sick with rage, ill with incensement at his life, at the circumstances that rose like brick walls around him. At the feeling of asphyxiation. And London…beautiful London. A cultural center, a stronghold, reduced to ashes. Arthur composed himself before any tears even dared to spring up in his forest green eyes. Arthur subtly cleared his throat.

"So is Paris." Francis gave a dry chuckle and gestured vaguely to the ruins outside his cracked window. He took a long swig of a wine bottle and made a sound that was a cross between a chuckle and sob, though more of the latter. In a genuinely anguish tone, Francis added, "What are we but poor, suffering men?"

Arthur almost laughed, but his throat was too tight and dry. Francis' strong French accent and the words brought back memories of all the wars they'd fought.

"Humanity is a lie." Arthur spat, throat tightening. He shifted his gaze away from Francis' and looked out the window, blinking hurriedly. "It'd be better if we died."

"Soon enough, Arthur." Francis agreed.

;;;;;

Vash Zwingli was starving, exhausted. All of his limbs were screeching with pain, and his lungs were so full of dust and ash he could only take a few shallow breaths without succumbing to a coughing fit that became so violent he'd almost faint. A splitting pain erupted in his lungs each with each pitiful breath. Blisters on his hands seeped fluid generously from the burns he had sustained in pulling survivors from blazing rubble. In retrospect, that was a pointless act. They died soon after from choking on cinders. Vash had the sweat of the dead on his hands, he had their last breaths on his clothing, but no last words in mind. Vash sat on a chunk of cement next to Liese, pallid as the ashes that blanketed Zurich. Vash raised his aquiline eyes, a marvelous jade green, to the heavy sky and shifted his gaze to Liese. She surveyed the valley they were trapped in, the mass grave they'd soon be a part of. Liese had not once complained of hunger, pain, exhaustion. She was extremely hardy, and did not faint or shed a tear when they discovered a mass of bodies under a crucifix that had been the centerpiece of the church in that small town. Vash had been distinctly unsettled by that discovery, but he'd seen significantly worse.

Vash grabbed his adoptive sister's hand and pulled her up. She was weighed down by the backpack full of food, water, and other things they had salvaged before they were pounded into the ground by bombs. They had to escape before the smog choked them to death.

"We're leaving." Vash said. Why he had been sitting around in blazing Zurich, acrid smell of ash and burning stinging his eyes? Numbness, physical pain.

"Where are we going?" she asked, looking him straight in the eye. There was a sparkle of motivation in those deep teal irises.

"Austria." He replied, stifling a cough.

"Oh." She nodded. "Let's go. We've got mountains to get through, right? And…Are we walking?" Liese asked timidly, as if she was ashamed of her question. Vash shook his head. Three days of walking in their present condition was suicide, especially with the whereabouts of status of everyone else unknown, and condition of the air, thick with dust and ashes. Liese didn't look any less relieved by this. He found a car nearby, blasted the window to smithereens and clambered inside. He ordered Liese to wait outside while his skilled hands hotwired the car. Once the wire touched the battery cable, the engine started. He beckoned her in the two set out.

"We'll follow the highways." Vash said firmly, looking again at the heavy sky. Laced with the smell of ashes, smoke, and dust, he smelled rain. The food in the rucksack would last them a while, since neither had a large appetite, particularly in these circumstances. The scent of fire, blood, death clung to them, neutralizing any feelings of hunger that gnawed at them from within. In terms of health, Liese was faring better than Vash. Vash was far too accustomed to the clear, fresh Alpine air to be able to inhale filth.

The highways were devoid of any cars until they hit Germany. Wreckage blocked some of the lanes, and the air was heavy and hazy. There was a point where they could not proceed in a vehicle, as Stonehenge sized pieces of wreckage blocked the way. This wasn't a huge problem—Salzburg was but a day away on foot. One hour into the walk, Vash felt a raindrop fall on his cheek. Being caught in the rain was inevitable, but each drop that fell had the feeling of a needle's pinprick. They walked under it as sheets of rain pounded the umbrella, a deafening white noise, similar to the bombs that hit Zurich six hours ago. Who, and better question, why? Vash had a strong feeling he knew who did it, but that he'd keep to himself. Now out of the valley, the air was clearer, and Vash could breathe, but not without spurts of debilitating pain in his chest that erupted every so often. Liese had fallen into step with him. She held his hand, and Vash promised he'd not let go until they reached Salzburg. Involuntarily, he gave her hand a squeeze. Liese glanced up at him and smiled conservatively. They'd make it through, and that was a promised her eyes clearly communicated.

"Would you like something to drink?" Liese asked him.

Vash shook his head. He could not speak—his throat was raw and burning; to talk would be stupid action. Walking quickly and dutifully, the two continued. Stopping was brutal waste of time. Of course they were exhausted, but as nations they'd endured worse. Vash was impressed by Liese's stamina—many times she went ahead of him, though he made sure she was in eyeshot. Vash's nerves were on end with the possibility that looters were in the area. It was dubious, but a strong possibility nonetheless. Vash was weighed down with a rifle and sword, crossed on his back, and ammunition stuffed in every pocket of the jade green uniform he wore. Not that he'd need it—his aim was eerily accurate. He hadn't missed a shot in many, many years.

The new morning was clearer, now in Austria, but even on a day with no clouds a haze blocked out the sunlight. It was breezy, in the mountains, yet each zephyr simply stirred cinders out of Vash and Liese's clothing, a sickening reminder of what Zurich had become.

"We're in Salzburg." Liese said. "Now what?"

They were in Salzburg, yes. Salzburg was still an unblemished city , but the roads were empty, as the city was in mourning and hiding. Liese had posed a thought provoking question. She didn't dare inquire why Vash settled on Salzburg, and he himself wondered why he was in Austria, where that bastard Roderich lived. But that was exactly why Vash was there. He had a strong feeling that Vash was in Salzburg, and creating an informal alliance with him would be advantageous in this situation. Vash immediately found Austria's house, an old mansion surrounded by thick foliage. He rapped smartly on the door and waited patiently. Roderich was home. Vash heard the neat clicking of the heels of Roderich's boots against the floor. Roderich opened the door, and his perpetual scowl only deepened upon seeing Vash, dirty and pallid.

"Vash." Roderich greeted, dark eyebrow rising in a gesture of contempt.

"Roderich." Vash greeted stonily.

A long pause, followed by a sigh.

"Do you need something, Vash?" Roderich asked jadedly, running a hand through dark, shiny hair.

"Zurich is gone." Vash said tensely. Yes, Zurich was but a pile of ashes now. It was buried in that valley and would forever remain that way. The memory brought a bilious feeling to Vash, mixed with a stinging sensation in his eyes. Cinders, of course.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Roderich said coolly. "Vienna is also…ahem." Roderich adjusted his glasses with a delicately trembling hand.

"Do you know if other nations are alive?"

"Yes—I know of Ludwig, Gilbert, Feliks…" Roderich trailed off, last note of Feliks' name hanging in the still air. Roderich ticked the names off of his long, slender fingers.

"And Elizaveta?" Vash asked perfunctorily. It was only natural to inquire about the condition of one's spouse. Vash wasn't the least bit interested.

"Please, don't mention her!" Roderich implored, blanching. He waved a hand in a dismissive manner. Vash detected a note of hysteria in his smooth voice. Surely something hadn't gone wrong between the two? Vash didn't care. He shoved the thought out of his head and focused on the matter at hand.

"Sorry." Vash harrumphed, exchanging a suspicious look with Liese.

"Since you've been rid of a place to stay, enter." Roderich stepped out of the doorway and allowed Liese and Vash to cross the threshold. Vash did so reluctantly, and didn't even glance at the ostentatious decorations that littered Roderich's stately mansion. Liese greeted Roderich is a reserved, but cordial fashion. Liese had always liked Roderich, as Roderich treated her like a mature woman (she was—but Vash didn't want to even hear of it), and Elizaveta considered Liese her daughter of sorts.

"What's going on, Roderich?" Vash demanded.

"Nothing you can change." Roderich snapped.

Vash took that statement into consideration. Roderich was unusually bitter, and listening very closely, Vash noted that Roderich sounded close to tears. He was wringing his hands and looking all around, as if searching for something that was nestled under the floorboards, in the ceiling. The navy coat Roderich wore was wrinkled and dark circles stained the skin under his eyes as if a painter had stroked dark purple under them. Vash tensed. It was painfully obvious that Roderich was biting back something that Vash would not like to hear. In fact, the words seemed to be fluttering pathetically on Roderich's pallid lips. Vash, for once, was interested in what he had to say.

"Roderich, get a hold of yourself." Vash said brusquely, frowning. "Who bombed Europe?"

"That is unknown. Russia is carved out as well." Roderich said coldly. Vash almost sighed with relief— so he wasn't the only one that lived with that suspicion.

"Unless it was Ivan that did it himself to cover up the crime." Vash pointed out. Roderich gave a minimal, nearly undetectable nod, but Liese disagreed with them. Vash grimaced as he performed a five seconds evaluation of his life thus far and leaned against the ornate wall. He locked his knees to keep from sinking to the ground. And now, he imposed the same question Liese had asked him earlier— now what?

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...I'm asking myself the same question. I fail so hard. Bawwww.

Liese is Liechtenstein. Because I like that name and Lily reminds me too much of Lily Potter.

...but I may continue.

What do you think?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

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"Jeszsze Polska nie zngięła, kiedy my żjemy…" Feliks paused to take a hearty swig of vodka from the broken bottle he had nicked from his house in Lodz, now flatland of rubble and dust. The chipped bottle cut his lip, and the sting of vodka now burned on his lip. He gave a laugh and fell over a piece of what was a building, falling flat on his face. Toris helped him up.

"Feliks, stop drinking." Toris said, frowning at his best friend.

"I'm fine. Relax, already." Feliks waved Toris away. "Where was I…oh! Co nam obca przemoc wzięła, szabla odbierzemy." He continued with Poland's national anthem. Toris felt his chest constrict—Poland is not lost. That anthem. Lithuania had been forced to learn Poland's national anthem years ago, and he still knew it by heart. Feliks often tried to correct Lithuania's pronunciation, but it was a fruitless attempt. Toris' simply wasn't geared to pronounce _that _language, and Feliks was extremely nitpicky with pronunciation. Feliks sang surprisingly on key for someone so obviously drunk, stepping over wreckage clumsily. Toris followed, to make sure Feliks didn't fall off a mass of building and die, leaving Toris alone. He didn't know where they were going, but he had been weeping for an hour or so, out of fear and frustration. Feliks had lost it once he took to the vodka—that was the first thing he did after he saw Lodz. Toris, after seeing Vilnius and Kaunas razed to the ground, sat there and wept for hours. But Feliks had already seen Poland's major cities, wiped out, and had the same reaction for each one. He would blanch, but offer a shaky smile to Toris, whose eyes welled with bitter tears at the sight of every city. Feliks' reaction to Warsaw was different. It held such a turbulent, yet noble past. Feliks had stopped breathing and gazed at the remains, eyes wide and glazed over. Feliks was rendered incapable of speaking, too shocked and numb to make a coherent sentence. Even so, he was remarkably resistant to feelings of grief.

"Feliks, where are we going?" Toris asked. His knees ached, and he was weighed by down by unshed tears and trauma that was hardening like a bezoar in his stomach. The rifle slung over his shoulder for self defense was heavy, straps slicing into his skin like a scalpel each time his shoulders moved.

Feliks turned around and eyed Toris in a suspicious, askance manner. The sun rose behind him; Feliks was trim silhouette. His hair, pale golden blond, the color of the rye fields the two used to harvest together, sunlight illuminated the brown splotches of blood on his uniform.

"I don't know." Feliks offered a small, apologetic smile.

"Oh…well, now what do we do?" Toris asked, sitting down. The cement was warm, humanly warm. But upon placing a naked hand on it, the bitter taste of smoke sprung to his mouth. The cement was frigid with the fading touch of fire.

"I don't know, Toris." Feliks responded quietly. Feliks took a breath and turned his back to Toris. "Why don't we head south to Austria? We'll find Elizaveta."

Toris smiled weakly. Elizaveta, the powerhouse, the iconic strong woman. She was a old friend, a comrade of war. Toris wondered how she was doing, and whether her uptight husband had learned to relax. The idea dissipated like breath on a cold day when he looked around the city flattened city before him. Reality grabbed him by the ankles and yanked him to the earth: there was a strong possibility that Elizaveta was dead. And yet, he agreed.

"I think that's a good idea."

;;;

Mornings: new beginnings, fresher than the dew drops that clung to the green grass outside. Fresher than the cinders that blanketed the city, rendered a graveyard composed of grotesque obelisks and grave markers.

White light that cascaded through the large windows blinded Arthur through his eyelids, which were determinedly sealing his vision from the world outside. Arthur finally opened his eyes and winced. He woke up on that dilapidated couch he had collapsed on the night before, tired as ever. Pain radiated throughout his body, and nausea was circling inside him slowly, a vulture waiting to prey on the last bit of nerve Arthur had left. Birds chirped and flew about outside, clouds floated across the vivid blue sky. And when Arthur shifted his gaze below, he saws the ruins of a city. Those birds were cruel, he thought, to be singing on a day like today. All things should have bowed down with mourning, including the sky. Arthur sighed and slipped his jacket off, making his way to the kitchen. He wasn't hungry—he was too full of anger and moroseness to stomach one meal—but he felt he'd faint if he didn't eat.

"Good morning." Francis said blandly.

"Wine at this hour?" Arthur scoffed, nipping a bit of French bread from the loaf set on the table.

"For my citizens." Francis replied coolly. A cold gaze from Francis befell Arthur, but Arthur simply averted his own gaze to the ceiling. Tea would have been magnificent right now, but that was the last thing Arthur drank in London. To him, it was a sacrilegious act to drink that under these circumstances. He didn't want to be reminded of London's fall. Yet the items that prompted the revival of the memory surrounded him, from the ruins outside to the steam rising from a sizzling meal that cooked on the stove.

"Francis, do you know who did this?" Arthur asked, sinking into a seat on the opposite side of the table.

Francis shook his head and grimaced. He absentmindedly ran a hand through blonde waves and sighed a drawn out, heavy sigh. His eyes, blue as the sky, roved about the room.

"Who do you know is alive?" Arthur asked gruffly.

"You, me, Ludwig, Gilbert, and Roderich."

"So no Antonio, then?" Arthur resisted cruel, wry smile. That bastard, Antonio. He and Arthur could hardly be in the same room together. While Arthur was always irritable, his mood worsened considerably when Antonio was nearby. Likewise, the same happened to Antonio. Conflict and wars riddled their past, and neither was willing to forgive. The Invincible Armada versus the Royal Navy.

"I haven't heard from him yet." Francis said tensely, stiffening. He drew breath to say something, but suddenly stopped. His eyes widened and his head snapped toward the window. Arthur jumped up from his chair and looked outside, scanning the blue sky frantically for planes with the cheap guise of birds. Before the warning came the low hum.

"Arthur, do you hear that?" Francis demanded, rising from his chair.

Arthur heard the sirens at once, haunting notes rising and falling rhythmically and slicing through the air. He was back in nineteen forty one, in a stiflingly crowded bomb shelter as the earth shook with explosion after explosion. To emerge from that shelter was like taking a step into hell—a brilliant conflagration of orange, sparks leaping about and cinders littering the ground, resting upon debris and bodies of the old and young alike. The air itself was asphyxiated by the lack of oxygen: there was no air. Arthur's horrifying reverie was broken by Francis, who grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and towed him out of the kitchen, muttering in French. The two didn't need to exchange any words, nor a glance—they knew very well that a second raid was dreadfully imminent. The experience granted to them by history was forever frozen within the two. They knew that any unnatural sound that wasn't the sound of bustling street, an ambulance, or commercial airplanes zooming overhead was one to fret over. Francis flung a door open and sprinted down the stairs, boots clacking against each step. Arthur followed, not daring to take a breath, no matter how badly his body begged him to. The staircase led them deep underground to a small room with low ceilings, nonperishable food items stacked precariously in the corner. Even deep underground Arthur heard those sirens, and upon placing a hand against the wall to steady himself he could almost feel those two notes in his trembling, sweating hand. Francis sank to the floor, white faced. Arthur did the same, leaning against the cool wall. His windpipe seemed to have withered, his chest too tight for breath as it was full of anxiety and genuine terror. The breaths he took were arrhythmic and sporadic. Dampening the sirens with the sound of life was not worth missing the ultimate notes, and less likely, the all clear signal.

Explosions, deafening, great explosions set the firm ground into a continuous quiver, punctuated by glass shattering and the roar of the flames—or perhaps Arthur was just reliving the memory of those six years. He and Francis locked eyes not once. Five minutes passed without a word and hardly a breath from either of them. The final note hung in the air, poised in a hauntingly still balance, death ready to steal the lives of civilians.

Francis stood up from the floor and offered a hand to Arthur, a gesture of hospitality. Arthur blatantly ignored the offer and rose from the ground on legs that bore the consistency of gelatin. Up the stairs the two lumbered. Francis rested a hand on the door, the border between safety and danger. An indecipherable expression crossed Francis' ashen face.

"Those sirens weren't intended to function for this. They were for public announcements" Francis grimaced. Back downstairs. The bombs hit my house. The door is warm. Fire is close." Francis said. Choppy sentences were rare for him, which only aggravated Arthur's roiling anxiety. He numbly followed Francis down the dim stairs back to their original place. Francis made a beeline for the stack of food and began to rummage through it. From the pile he withdrew a rifle and threw it to Arthur, who caught it nimbly.

"You're better with those than me." He muttered.

"Are we trapped?" Arthur asked hoarsely, choking on the final word. The rifle was light in his arms.

"No." Francis replied. He flung a gas mask at Arthur, who was reminded of the smoky conditions that followed raids. Francis pointed to the opposite wall. Arthur glanced at it. It was but a dreary cement wall with a heavy door. Francis walked quietly to the door, as if fearful of waking a sleeping child. He opened it and beckoned Arthur over with his head. Arthur tailed behind, led deeper underground down winding, uneven stairs. Twice he missed a step and nearly tumbled down. The tunnel was dark as pitch. Arthur could not see the silhouette of Francis in front of him. Minutes later, Arthur found himself on flat ground. Francis undid locks of all kinds and size on the door and with a grunt it opened. A grassy meadow lay in front of them, and black smoke billowed from the city. Arthur sighed and put on the gas mask, as did Francis.

"Now what do we do?" Arthur asked. Questions were hot on his pallid lips. Francis with a prepared shelter, complete with weapons, food, and an extra escape door? He knew something Arthur didn't. More than ever, Francis appeared as an enemy before Arthur.

"We escape." Francis replied in a daring, mutinous tone. "Follow me. The trains might still be running."

"Where will we go?" Arthur asked, agitated as he ran after Francis.

"Anywhere but here." Francis said nervously. He paused to look over his shoulder at his house, swallowed by vicious, red flames that reached high into the sky. Black smoke billowed from the city and created a new layer in the atmosphere that was composed solely of smoke and dust. A beautiful day had been plunged into a thick, perpetual night by the raid.

Arthur was unnerved by the flames, the smoke, but most of all, the lack of plans. Death was biting his heels, clawing his ankles, climbing up his knee—or was Arthur's leg asleep from sitting down?

"We have to get into Paris to get on the train." Arthur said flatly.

"Right."

"But Paris is…"

"I know, but there's a way." Francis insisted, waving a hand. "Through the subways."

"Are they running?" Arthur asked mockingly. He gestured to the flames, swaying violently.

"Well, what do you think?" Francis snapped. "We can move through there to the train station in the North. From there we can go to Austria or something, Vienna."

"Vienna is no more. The station has likely been destroyed." Arthur said. "Trains aren't going to be running at a time like this, bloody git!"

"But my dear Arthur, you of all people should know that raids entail much waiting." Francis responded. "And it if has been destroyed, then we'll sail to Italy and go to Venice, heading north to Salzburg."

"Why Austria?"

"Why not? Roderich will be able to help us." Francis was growing impatient with Arthur's unrelenting questions. "Roderich is a good man. He'll know what to do in this situation, and has connections with everyone else."

Alfred Jones came to mind, and panic nearly stopped Arthur's heart. What had become of Alfred? Was he alive? Arthur couldn't think about that now. He was closely following Francis, who wove through debris and fire in a desperate, unstoppable effort to make it underground. Paris had become ugly, disfigured, leprous. Arthur noted dying civilians that fell like sandbags to the floor as they choked on the starved air and other that were reduced to ashes. He averted his gaze and kept his eyes trained on Francis, who ran down a flight of stairs into the underground, the subways. Civilians and survivors were huddled together, wailing, but Francis could only offer his condolences before leaping onto the rail and running down the black tunnel.

Once out of earshot, out of breath and sweating through his clothing, Arthur removed his gas mask and gulped a breath of stale, underground air, slowing his run to a jerky, staggering amble.

"If a train comes, we back up against the walls and hope for the best." Francis said breathlessly, throwing Arthur a look. For a moment, Arthur smelled cinders, but he realized it was them. Ashes clung to them like iron to a magnet.

"We're going north to Gare du Nord. We'll wait until we can take a train to Vienna." Francis gave a brief explanation that did not assuage Arthur in any way. They had no solid plans—all was up smoke. Francis knew where he was going. The two walked for an hour, passing many stations, some packed with survivors and others bearing the silence of a mausoleum. Francis was remarkably stoic during this time. Paris had been surprise attacked, twice. The citizens were not prepared; the casualty rate leaped up with each attack and with the passing time. All seemed peaceful among the nations prior to this disaster, so why? It was that question that seared with unbearable heat on Arthur's lips.

"Here we are." Francis said, climbing up on the platform. Another platform with very few people, and those few were gaunt and ghostlike. The two ascended the crumbling stairs cautiously yet determinedly, and strapping on the gas masks, took another step into a stifling, tempestuous hell.

;;;

He was, for once, alone. Not a tall, blonde man at his side, not a sneering brother. A lonely young man that wandered around Venice with nothing but a bag of groceries, money, and a handheld weapon to defend himself. While Venice was his home, he considered it nothing of that sort on that particular day. The canals were foreign and dull, a spider web, and the pole he held in hand was heavy and inviting blisters to settle on his smooth hands. He stood unsteadily on the gondola. Venice was cowering, civilians shied away from streets. The possibility of a barrage of bombs like the ones that wiped Rome, Milan, and many other cities off the face of the earth was petrifying and very real—this was no nightmare. And every time the young man awoke from his naps, he was horror struck at seeing Vienna in hiding and mourning from his open window.

Feliciano Vargas was alone. Where was Lovino at that hour? Rome—present day no man's land. Was he alive? Feliciano did not know, and part of him didn't want to know. And Ludwig? Feliciano couldn't think of his best friend without going weak in the knees or without tears springing to his warm amber eyes. Feliciano entered his Venetian apartment and flopped on the couch, only for the telephone sitting precariously on a table to catch his eye. He knew exactly who to phone—Roderich. Roderich would know what to do. He always knew what to do.

"Edelstein residence." Roderich's stiff, heavily accented voice brought a goofy smile to Feliciano. Roderich was rarely affectionate, and over the phone he was cold and straightforward. Having a phone conversation that lasted more than three minutes with him was impossible.

"Roderich, I'm scared," Feliciano cried. "I don't know what to do. Ludwig and Lovino might be gone."

"Feliciano…" Roderich trailed off, thinking of how to respond to such an inane statement. "Ludwig is with me—do not worry about him."

"Can I speak to him? Please? Please!" Feliciano demanded. Relief washed over Feliciano.

"Not now. Ludwig is busy. Feliciano, you are always welcome to come to my mansion in Salzburg. Other nations are here."

Feliciano grinned. It'd be like old times in Roderich's big, comfortable house.

"I am going to have to cut this conversation short."

"It's fine." Feliciano said with a dry laugh. "So I can go to your house? Thanks! I'll be there as soon as the train can get me there! Oh, and how is Lizzy?"

There was long pause on Roderich's end, so long that Feliciano was tempted to call his name to check he was still on the other line. Roderich sighed and finally spoke.

"Elizaveta is dying." He said flatly. In an involuntary spasm of shock, Feliciano's hand opened and phone fell from Feliciano's hand and clattered to the floor. Blood fled from Feliciano's face, leaving him cadaverously pale. He snatched the phone from the floor and held the receiver to his ear with a shaking hand.

"Feliciano, I have to go now." Roderich said urgently.

"Wait, Roderich—tell Elizaveta to live until I see her." Feliciano said tremulously, as he threw clothing and food into a bag haphazardly.

"Feliciano, death does not wait, nor does it discriminate." Roderich said coldly. The frigidity, the hardness of Roderich's tone plunked a cold, heavy rock in Feliciano' stomach. "It will never take orders from humans. Goodbye."

* * *

The Polish national anthem is incredible. I recommend you listen it.

Also I still fail. I'm just trying my hand at writing srs bzns.

Seriously, if Artie and Francis didn't have such rancor for each other, they would be best friends.

Reviews are appreciated, even if it's something pointless like hjkahfl or !


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

Arthur and Francis were aching and exhausted, having gone thirty six hours without eyes closed for longer than five minutes, but sleeping was not an option, especially in the crowded train station. Formerly majestic military uniforms were caked with cinders and the two reeked of old sweat accentuated by the pointed, sweet scent of ashes. Francis' wavy hair was greasy, stringy, framing his face unattractively. Under his eyes ghastly purple circles situated themselves. Arthur was pallid as the dust that clung to his clothing. His throat felt like it had been sloughed, and breathing became a voluntary activity. Francis spent most of the day coughing, choking on his own breath, acrid with the scent of wine from earlier that day. The two were milling about outside the train station, where very few people roamed due to the stifling conditions of the air. Paris had been nearly flattened: embers clung to the few standing structures that rose like black obelisks in the city, grave markers at the mercy of the austere elements.

"Arthur, I was thinking we stay here." Francis said suddenly, stifling a cough. "Since all nations are rendezvousing at Roderich's house, it would be best to have a few nations in the west."

Arthur pondered Francis' perfectly rational statement. His point was valid, especially since Antonio Fernandez's status was unknown. He could have been dead just as well as he could've been alive. And then, Arthur noticed a familiar individual. He was fairly tall, well built, and had the characteristic pipe in his grasp. Another laceration was on the side of his face and that would heal like the scar on his forehead.

Sven let out a breath; silver smoke curled from his lips gracefully and dissipated in the heavy air. He shrugged and looked down at the broken ground, picking at a stain that resembled blood with the toe of his leather boot. Sven grimaced slightly—the wind brought the astringent scent of festering bodies and fire from nearby.

"I just want to beat the life out of who did this." He grumbled.

"I agree." Arthur snickered.

"Who did it?" Francis asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sven posed the question as a sentence, flat and monotone. He turned to Francis and Arthur. Before he resumed, he took another drag off the pipe held loosely in his left hand and said in a smoky exhale, "Alfred Jones."

"Why?" Francis gasped.

"Ask Ivan." Sven said flatly. "Whatever. I'm out of here."

"Where are you going?" Francis demanded.

"I thought my sister would be here, trying to get together with that asshole, Antonio." Sven responded coldly. "So I'm going to look for her. Or her body. Whichever I find first, I guess."

"Sven, wait just a minute…"

Arthur surreptitiously placed a hand on the wall to keep himself upright. Cold, slimy blood coursed through his veins, and he couldn't breathe no matter how hard he tried to get a little bit of air inside his cracking lungs. He couldn't. At the same time, his heart was slowing, the words reverberated hauntingly in his head. An image of Alfred blurred his vision, sweet, smiling Alfred, an uncorrupt youth. And the image soon faded, replaced by reality: the smoldering, charred city in front of them and Sven, deliberately expressionless at the news of his sister's death, watching over the embers of Paris that opened itself up earnestly in front of him. A whole metropolis that burned because of Alfred, hundreds of thousands dead. No, that didn't seem right at all. The world's axis had been misplaced—all was grossly turned around. Towns were morphed into graveyards, people to dust, fields to barren lands, placid oceans to violent seas…it then occurred to Arthur: surely, the world was nearing the end. Death was the looming smoke over Paris.

"Well, she wasn't important to me, anyway." Sven said gruffly, frowning.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Sven." France said sincerely. He patted Sven's arm in a familiar gesture. Sven brushed him off and shrugged, glancing at the floor.

"I suppose I'll return to the Netherlands. Vaarvel." And Sven left without another word. Francis turned to Arthur and gave him an apologetic look, but Arthur could only manage a grim baring of teeth. Arthur placed a trembling hand over his tightly closed eyes.

"I didn't expect this." He said hoarsely.

"Damn it." France said under his breath, rubbing his eyes viciously, as if he was trying to erase all images that had been seen that day. "Alfred, of all people. Merde. I was thinking Ivan or some other psycho."

"It wasn't Alfred." Arthur growled. He was kidding himself. The planes that flew over France were American. But imagination had stolen the paintbrush of common sense and recreated the memory, tailoring it to Arthur's subconscious desires.

Francis didn't need to inform Arthur that Paris had been air raided by America. He could see the livid fear on Arthur's face. Francis sighed and asked, "Then who was it?"

"Ivan." Arthur spat. "That bastard has never done anything right."

"Careful, Arthur." Francis chided, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind an ear. "Don't say things that could get us killed. From now on, we're fugitives."

"Careful, Francis." Arthur snapped, flashing a heavily mocking smile. The contortion of his ashen was was made more grotesque, as Arthur was hell bent on jailing those tears behind his eyelids. "What does Sven know?"

"Sven is just as reliable as you or me." Francis said reasonably. "And you saw the planes."

"What if Ivan hijacked them?" Arthur pointed out.

"Mon Dieu, stop over thinking things." Francis said with an eye roll. "It is what it is. We need to lay low from now on."

"No shit, isn't that what we're doing at this minute?" Arthur's voice had begun to waver and shake with desperation and exasperation. The stiff upper lip he was famous for had been reduced to a trembling piece of skin. "Francis, it's best you and I separate."

"Don't be stupid, Arthur." Francis muttered, massaging his temples. For a man who denounced his youth at the age of ten, he was acting in a maddeningly puerile manner. "You just don't want me to see you cry."

"Oh, shut the fuck up." Arthur snarled, folded his arms in a defensive gesture. He turned away from Francis and added, "Twat."

"What do you say we do now, Admiral Kirkland?" Francis said.

"Not a bloody clue." Arthur murmured.

"Listen. Let's stay here. Nations have to be spread out. If someone's out to get us, then barricading ourselves in one place is…suicidal. You and I, as countries of Western Europe, should stay in the West."

"But it'll be obvious." Arthur said bluntly.

"If we were found in Salzburg with everyone else, we'd make easy targets, yes?" France said, raising an eyebrow, challenging Arthur to contradict him. Arthur was rendered silent—he agreed with Francis to a certain extent, and it may have been the first thing the two ever agreed on. Second, Arthur's throat was too tight, forcing him to hold his bitter silence.

"Paris has likely…has likely stopped burning." Francis said, tremor strumming his famously smooth voice. "Believe it or not, we're safe here. "The enemy probably thinks we're dead."

"With good reason." Arthur said blankly, gesturing brusquely to the city. "Everyone else is."

"I have a plan, but we need more people." Francis said eagerly. For the first time in days, a flame that came not from a burning city lit his bright eyes. He glanced at Arthur and said, "Arthur, wait here. I'm getting Sven. He could be useful in this situation."

;;;

Before Toris even saw them, he knew he was doomed. He felt them before he heard them, voices on the unsteady wind that lifted wavy hair off of his shoulders. Toris' perception of reality was severely warped by hunger that bordered on starvation and lack of sleep, to the point where he had suffered mild hallucinations here and there. The voices were likely the inane work of a mind that bobbed in an out of consciousness. Feliks hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary as they crossed sunny fields of vegetation, fields pure and oblivious to the one sided war that raged around them. Without warning, Feliks suddenly collapsed and fell on the vegetation with a thud.

"Feliks?" Toris asked urgently, bending over his best friend. "Are you all right?"

"God, I'm so hungry." Feliks moaned, flinging an arm over tired eyes. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and a pained laugh escaped him. He removed the arm from over his face and gazed at the clean blue sky with blank green eyes.

"I know." Toris said gently, sitting down next to him. "At least we have water."

"Not for long." Feliks pointed out. "I wonder, is this edible?"

Feliks grabbed a fistful of yellow stalks of what he suddenly realized was rye. He could answer that question himself. Feliks let go of the rye stalks and laid there, hunger eating apart his stomach.

"Barely." Toris responded. Just like old times, relaxing in the fields with Feliks. Yet so different from those days. This time, the two were crippled by hunger and had no plans to save themselves from the impending danger that surrounded them. They didn't even know where they were going. Roderich's house? No. Yes? Toris didn't know southern Poland well, and he assumed Feliks had forgotten about that plan.

"Hey, Toris?" Feliks prompted, sounding calm, accepting. "I think we're going to die here."

"Don't say that, Feliks." Toris said with a scowl. "It's only been five days without food. Most people can live without food for about a month with adequate water supply."

Feliks grunted noncommittally and touched the tip of a finger to the healing cut on his lip. He hardly remembered getting that cut. Toris stifled a yawn and fell back into the grass, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He made a promise to himself that he'd get moving in ten minutes. Feliks was already asleep, chest rising and falling slowly, almost undetectably—he would have resembled a corpse. Toris' nap was cut short by the unnerving, frigid sound: the cock of a gun bolt. When Toris' eyes snapped open, he found himself staring straight into eyes that were shamelessly beautiful shade of pale violet. On the surface, they are warm and caring: a lure. Past the thin sheen of kindness is the cold, calculating gaze, with cruelty dancing like a flame in those eyes that emanated the frigidity of Siberian nights. Those eyes glowed menacingly even with the shade cast over them from the peaked cap Ivan wore.

"I found you." That saccharine little voice, the same voice that narrated the haunting nightmares that marred Lithuania's dreams. "Toris _and _Feliks. It has been a productive day. You know the drill by now: you have no choice in this matter. You belong to me, unless you prefer death."

Toris glanced at Feliks. Feliks was staring at Ivan with such blazing intensity. He drew breath to speak, and Ivan turned the rifle on him.

"You wanted to say something?" Ivan said coolly.

"I can't wait until you get killed by everyone else." Feliks said darkly.

"Hm, I find that highly unlikely." Ivan said in a sing song voice. Feliks had clearly offended him. There was something about the way Ivan's eyes took on a sinister glow, and the smile that curved up to the right. He grabbed Feliks by his jacket and hoisted him up, doing the same to Toris, who refused to lock eyes with Ivan.

"Walk." Ivan said, jabbing the rifle into Toris' back. Ivan had a tight hold of Feliks' jacket. "Alfred, look who I found."

Toris' head snapped up from looking down at hearing that name. The man before him was clearly Alfred. Clean honey blonde shining in the sun, glasses catching the light. His rosy complexion had faded to a chalky white, and his eyebrows were drawn together in an act of dissent or mild repulsion. He did not smile at Toris. Arthur was clad in the same gray uniform Ivan wore e held a rifle loosely in his arms and showed no warmth or familiarity to them, watching them keenly. His eyes were icy and the gaze they casted chilling, hostile. Toris had lived with Alfred for a few years, but as Ivan drew closer with his victims, Alfred regarded them as strangers. No, more than strangers— enemies. Alfred was a warm, cordial person, to strangers and friends alike. What happened? Toris felt the sickening sensation of reality sink in when Alfred raised the rifle and pointed it at Toris' chest. For a moment, Toris wondered if Alfred could hear the thrashing heartbeats that knocked against his ribs.

"Name?"

"Toris Lorinaitis."

"Name?" Alfred prompted, turning to Feliks.

"Feliks Łukasiewicz." Feliks responded snidely.

Alfred and Ivan exchanged indecipherable looks and maintained Toris and Feliks at gunpoint throughout a long walk they took through the fields. Toris tried to catch Feliks' eye several times, but Feliks stared intently straight ahead. Was he afraid? Toris had never seen Feliks show fear. The memory of the time Gilbert's sword came down with the intention to sever Feliks' head rose to the buzzing surface of Toris' mind. Feliks only smiled, tranquil, agreeing with the terms of death, and bowed his head. Fear was afraid of Feliks, Toris thought. Toris desperately attempted to catch Feliks' attention, but Feliks' green eyes never strayed from the horizon. Toris wanted to talk to him, and while it wouldn't solve the situation, Toris would feel more at peace with the fact that death was imminent if Feliks spoke to him.

"Stop walking." Ivan commanded. His tone was sardonic, tight with amusement.

Feliks looked down and sucked in a breath. The two were standing on a precipice that overlooked hills of fields and vegetation. A cold wind swirled around them.

"Don't move." Alfred added.

Following those words, a click sounded behind. The epiphany hit Toris hard enough to bring him to his knees. Execution was near. Questions seared through his mind, but he couldn't answer or ask them with his thundering heartbeat ringing in his head. The blood pounded in his head with the same heat of a virulent fever.

Feliks was eying the river below, calculating. He looked over his shoulder tentatively and noticed Ivan pointing the rifle from Toris' head to his back, deciding where to shoot. Alfred had the rifle aimed steadily at Feliks' neck. Tauntingly, Feliks' lifted filthy blonde hair off of his neck and gave Alfred a serene, goading smile. He didn't need to speak the words, "Go ahead, shoot." Alfred's frown deepened. And then he lowered the rifle to his side and turned to Ivan, grim.

"Ivan, let's not kill them here." Alfred said flatly. And yet, Toris detected an imploring note at the end of his sentence.

"Why ever not, Alfred?" Ivan demanded coolly, settling on the target that was the back of Toris' head of wavy brown hair.

"Let's give them hell in Moscow." Alfred responded.

Ivan's eyes went skyward as he weighed the options. Toris had a fervent prayer on his trembling lips and stinging tears in his eyes. Was Ivan in a good mood, or was he under a spell of general misanthropy that day? Toris didn't know which to hope for.

Ivan lumbered to Toris, heaving him up from the ground by the neck of his shirt.

"I'm fine with that." Ivan said with a nod. Once again, the hard barrel of a rifle was at Toris' back as the new walk began.

;;;

Vash felt hollow. He played with the idea of cutting his skin with a knife to see if there was anything inside him besides stale air. His reflection in the knife was sharp and vivid; he stared right into his jade green eyes and frowned. His reflection mimicked him, and in a spurt of irritation he flung the knife back on the table and looked up to see Liese watching him keenly.

"Oh…hi." He murmured, averting his gaze to the sunny day outside.

"How are you, Vash?" Liese asked with a reserved smile.

"Fine."

"You look depressed." Liese observed. "Want to discuss it?"

"I'm angry, not depressed." He said dully. He maintained a thick, morose silence. Vash felt empty, yet he was heavy with regret. Sandbags of grief were tied to him.

"Yes, it's understandable." Liese said, no longer smiling. She took his hand and gave it a squeeze that Vash did not return. Vash didn't return the supportive gaze from Liese either; instead, he switched his stare to the window. Looking at her served as a gesture for jealously to become a virulent force in him. She had lost nothing—Liechtenstein was untouched. But it was such a small country that it was worthless to raze; its riches were few and its fame nearly nonexistent. Her sympathy meant nothing to him. It had the same effect as wind on a cold, rainy day. It brought chills to him along with resentment.

"Let's have a talk, Vash." Liese said reasonably.

"I have nothing to talk about with you." He said coldly. Liese wasn't discouraged by this. She tried a different approach and wrapped her arms around him comfortingly, patting his back. Vash mumbled something and struggled, but gave up and stood rigidly. Liese had a special aroma that reminded him of the mountains, a thought that brought a tight sensation to his chest and a constricting force to his throat. Liese was warm, and through the green jacket she wore that was identical to his he felt each breath she took. Vash wriggled out of the embrace rather brusquely when Roderich walked into the kitchen, anguish alive on his pallid countenance. Liese greeted him politely.

"His wife is dying, Vash, you have nothing to complain about." Liese said stiffly, turning on her heel and stalking out of the room. She stopped abruptly and lowered at Vash over her shoulder. "The one he loves the most is circling the drain."

Roderich was staring at the floor, having the appearance of a ragged, orphan doll. He whipped the glasses off of his face and rubbed his eyes furiously, as if pounding tears and tiredness back in his eyes. Vash couldn't scoff at that when Roderich was standing nearby, summoning ever ounce of self control to keep him standing upright and expressionless save for the twitch of his lip.

"Good day to both of you." She said mechanically.

Vash stormed out of the kitchen and decided to spend a bit of time brooding. This was difficult, as Roderich's house had filled up. Roderich's house had begun to fill up. Gilbert, Ludwig, Vash, Liese, and Feliciano were guests for the time being. Conflicts were inevitable—Vash and Roderich couldn't speak to each other, while Ludwig and Gilbert spent more time arguing than at peace, conflicts heightened by the staggering deaths that swept Germany. Feliciano unwittingly bothered Ludwig. Liese seemed to the mediator of the house, polite and kind as always.

But shortly after swearing revenge to the monster that ravaged the world, the idea knocked at the door to his mind.

Roderich knew how to use guns, and he made a damn good sniper with those sharp ears of his. While Vash hadn't seen him in action, Gilbert had mentioned it about sixty years ago when they ran into each other at a restaurant. But Roderich preferred to avoid calluses and blisters on his hands that resulted from swinging swords around. However, Gilbert and Antonio—old friends of Roderich's— knew perfectly well that Roderich would turn cutthroat at the right provocation or reasonable motive. Gilbert had flown with the Luftwaffe for nearly a century, from the First World War, and later lifting the Nazi regime as high as the sky during Second World War, basking in the fame and glory that flocked to him like Muslims to Mecca as a top ranking ace. Antonio and Arthur knew the seven seas better than any map, from wind currents to islands and depth. The ocean is thought to owe loyalty to none, but this idea is untrue. The briny blue has been under the reign of Arthur and Antonio for centuries. Vash had the sharpest, most valuable pair of eyes in the group. Aside from the stunningly aquiline shade of jade green his irises were, looking into his eyes brought a cool sensation to the spine. Vash made sniping look as natural and basic as breathing, and thought strategically by nature. Ludwig was a born leader, a military genius and relatively combat minded. He knew bombs and guns and boats: Ludwig was extremely well rounded in the war area. Feliciano would work well as decoy, as he had nasty tendency of being sneaky. Liese's waiflike appearance was grossly deceiving: she knew how to use rifles, and several other devastating weapons. She had great fortitude and remained stoic during disasters.

Vash raised the discussion over dinner one cold evening.

"I'm not medically cleared to fly, but who cares?" Gilbert shrugged and lifted and gloved hand to give the sentinel perched on his head, Gilbird, an affectionate pat. "I'll figure it out. Just give me a few days to find a jet and I can work with that."

Vash didn't need an explanation. Gilbert was naturally lean, but in his Prussian blue uniform on that night he looked sickly thin. An ill pallor was his permanent complexion and he always looked tired, often sleeping for over twelve hours at a time. Violent coughs racked his body year round, and he was stricken by pneumonia at least once a year. Gilbert was chronically ill, and it was evident. Behind smiles, stalking, and raucous laughter that ended in bouts of hacking, Gilbert was deteriorating. The man was a time bomb.

"Everyone needs to return to their own countries." Ludwig said firmly. "If someone's out to get us, it'd be harder to track each one of us down as opposed to killing us all if we stayed in Salzburg."

"Luddy has a point." Gilbert said, blinking nervously. "We'll stay in contact. The phones still work. And if we really get screwed over, then we'll meet back here or something. I mean, we'll have to do that at some point anyway."

"You're missing one crucial thing." Roderich sighed. "Who did this?"

"Well, Roderich, we can't worry about that now." Gilbert said flatly. He and Ludwig rose from their seats, and made a move to go. "The point is to get a bit of defense under our wings and then do work."

* * *

Sven is Netherlands, in case it wasn't obvious.

Reviews are never redundant— leave me your thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

The high rise buildings leaned against each other, forming impressive, obeliskoid landmarks, balanced harmoniously in accordance with the incessant pull of gravity and the laws of physics. A weighty fog rose above the murky waters of the harbor nearby and quilted the burnt city. The smell of filthy sea and smoke lingered in the smog. Glass coated the street like sugar on candy, yet the shards did not glimmer and glitter in the bleak light that shone from the rising sun, choked by wall of haze.

Yao tucked a few strands of thick hair behind his ear and glanced at the people he viewed as family, huddled up nearby. Yong Soo, Kiku, Meimei, Xiang. Xiang's burgundy outfit bore the stains of old blood, and his windblown hair was caked with ash, blood; stringy with oil. Yong Soo's countenance was grim as it was grimy, and like Xiang, wore clothing soiled with blood. He sat on the hard ground, chin resting on his knees. Meimei gazed at the hazy harbor, lost in thought, with Kiku at her side. Kiku hadn't said a word in days, eyes wide as trauma replayed itself over and over again in his head, ripping open new wounds that leaked rancor and anguish. Yao was faring as well as he could, given the circumstances. An array of black bruises bloomed on his thigh from being trapped under rubble a few days ago, and there was a small cut on his arm. Yao had worked very hard to maintain his cheerful demeanor, but smiling in the face of tragedy was insulting. He felt like he was beckoning disaster to strike by keeping an upbeat attitude, by smiling in the wake of civilian deaths and destruction.

"Now what do we do?" Yong Soo asked. He picked at the cement he had been sitting on for hours.

And for the first time, Yao had no answer. He drew breath to speak but had no words. The reality that Yao was powerless had started the climb to his mind. Yao had a proclivity of calling himself the oldest brother, the one that was in charge, the role model. As the sun rose, the unnerving realization that Yao was very much in charge of the four lives in front of him dawned upon him. Four pairs of eyes were focused on him, haggard, pallid faces needed not a word to tell him how hungry and hurt they were. Those sweet faces flickered into the countenances of cadavers. White, ghastly, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Yao saw their souls rise and dissipate in the air, and the hallucination made Yao cringe. What drew a fearful whimper from him was the strong possibility that they'd all end up that way. Yet he had no plan to get out of festering Hong Kong, no stocked food. All he had was an old rifle slung over his shoulder and the filthy clothes on his back. Xiang froze suddenly, and lifted his light brown eyes to the sky.

"I hear something." He said pensively. Xiang stood up and unfolded his arms. "A plane."

"Me too." Meimei said tensely. "Definitely a plane."

"Definitely not. A helicopter." Kiku said, rising to full height. "A large one, from the military."

"Military?" Xiang demanded. He gave a short, derisive laugh. As if the military would do anything to help. The military was dead. Anarchy would arise if the survivors didn't die.

"Everyone, hide behind that rock!" Yao hissed, bursting into a sprint, beckoning the four over. It occurred to him: this was a chance to escape. Out of the billowing clouds came a massive twin engine helicopter that was undoubtedly American. The spinning of the blades created small scale tornado, the sound deafening. The air was cut into sharp slices that created vibrations so strong that Yao felt the buffeting wind inside him. As soon as the blades slowed down to a lazy twirl and a familiar man clambered out of the helicopter, Yao and Kiku exchanged mutinous glances. That helicopter was there to help or harm.

Alfred Jones said to the men before him in a very clear, booming voice, "If you find any survivors, kill them or bring them here. It's up to you."

At hearing that, the five of them pressed their bodies against the rock as if they wanted to merge with it. Chagrin smoldered inside Kiku, and Yao was visibly angry. Alfred, a traitor? They never thought. Memories of Alfred flooded them, but his impression was forever marred. Not one of them dared to take a breath in fear of being heard. Heavy boots thundered by and diminished as they went further into the city. Now was their chance. Yao gave Kiku and Meimei a harsh push out into the open, yanking Yong Soo off of the ground and making a mad dash for the open door of the helicopter. Xiang trailed behind, out of breath—Yao felt bad for making him run in that condition, but this flight was their ticket to civilization, he hoped.

They clambered in without a sound and packed themselves behind heavy, large containers toward the back that hid them well. Yao peered out from behind the box and scanned the interior of the helicopter. Silent; not a human in sight. Heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird, mind buzzing with adrenaline like a beehive, Yao fell into a sitting position against one of the containers.

"What do we do if we're found?" Yong Soo asked in a hushed voice, leaning closer to Yao as he expected an answer.

"Run." Yao answered frankly. He couldn't stop the mad smile that crept up his face. Yao almost laughed—the five of them had just boarded a helicopter that belonged to the enemy. They had no idea where they were going, and Yao wasn't proud to admit that it was his idea. Desperation led him to action. Yao made himself comfortable and smiled at the other four in a comforting manner. Tepid smiles were reflected back at Yao. He glanced at Xiang, who leaned his head against the cool metal of the box and sighed.

"Still don't feel well, Xiang?" Yao questioned. Xiang shook his head and grimaced. He had felt ill for quite a few days now. And yet, he was only on the verge of a fever. Yao wanted to coax the fever out of him, to do its job and kill any organism that sickened Xiang, but it would not come.

Fitful sleep shortened the long, bumpy journey. Yao did not know how many hours passed, nor what direction they were going. They were at the mercy of the pilot and of God at this point. As time passed, tension rose. Locked in the enemy's helicopter, how would they escape without being noticed? Yao thought and thought, yet nothing came to mind. He stared at the pallid, peaceful faces in front of him, lost in sleep. The start of the helicopter's descent was marked by Yao's heart leaping up to his throat, and the descent continued until flat ground halted all movement. And then, Kiku lifted a hand, finger extended, eyes wide.

Kiku was the first to see the hand, gloved in black leather, reach out from around the corner and grab Yao by his shirt, hoisting him off the ground. After the hand came the body, and Alfred Jones' frigid blue eyes moved from right to left swiftly, surveying the five filthy stowaways huddled together in front of him, not out of fear but out of defense. His left eyebrow went up in a gesture of questioning, of mocking.

"Stand up and follow me." He said coldly, withdrawing a hand gun from the inside of his overcoat. His eyes flickered to the rifle on China's back and the katana Kiku had sashed to his waist.

"Give your weapons to me." Alfred commanded. He held out an unwavering hand. Trembling, Yao removed the rifle from its strap and dropped it Alfred's hand. Kiku followed suit, eyes on the floor. He couldn't look Alfred in the eye. Ruthlessly backstabbed, Kiku felt stomach acid rise out of sheer fury at Alfred Jones, a former friend.

"Walk." Alfred tapped Xiang on the shoulder with the butt of the rifle, an indication to stand up and take orders.

"Excuse me, he's sick." Yao said pointedly. He offered a hand to Xiang, who bleakly grasped Yao's. Yao pulled him up, and Xiang fell into him, weakened by a blazing fever. His grimy cheeks shone pink, his eyes were lackluster and sweat weighed his clothing down. Alfred looked him over and gazed at Yao coldly.

"So?"

"Can he stay with me?" Yao asked, impatient.

Alfred shrugged and waved them out. As soon as Yao clambered out of the helicopter, he recognized his surroundings. Stone wreckage the color of blood was nearby, and the smoky air held a familiar smell. In the distance, he saw the shambles of an elaborate minaret resting peacefully on crumbling, ancient cement and stone. Moscow, Russia.

"New prisoners?" a female voice. A steely, drawling voice that came from a stunningly beautiful woman. Golden blond hair fell down her back like an open scroll. Her even toned skin allowed her midnight blue eyes to shine. Each blink of the eye was a graceful flap of a wing with those long, thick eyelashes that frame her shimmering eyes. Even under the heavy overcoat, the woman was svelte and carried herself so majestically she nearly glided, with the inhuman sashay of a prima ballerina in each step.

"Yeah." Alfred grunted.

"Excellent." The voice swelled with emotion. Yao watched her grin widen, and tug up to the right like her brother's in a spasm of genuine excitement. In that word, saturated with sadism, Yao detected a note of bloodlust. Her hand had a spasm of rich excitement.

"Oh, who is that one…the young one. He looks sick." This voice came from another woman. This one was warm, rich, filled with compassion and sympathy. The voice came from a shapely woman that wore no overcoat, but a gray military uniform. She scrutinized the five of them before her in a harmless, curious fashion. She absentmindedly brushed short, well kept ash blonde hair out of her eyes and smiled conservatively.

"Remove him. He can't be spreading his disease." The beautiful one snapped, waving her hand dismissively.

"No, no, I'm sure he'll get better after we give him some medicine and rest." The buxom lady turned teal blue eyes to Xiang and extended a hand. "What's your name?"

"Xiang." He replied dully.

"I'm Katyusha. Come with me." She said, smiling. Her eyes glittered with emotion, with sympathy. She waved him over. Wordlessly, Xiang followed her. She was chatty woman. She asked Xiang many questions, but Xiang refused to give any more than a yes or no. He was led into a fairly spacious office. It was undeniably a woman's office—pleasant perfume hung the air, flowers were here and there. Other than that, it was cluttered with papers, folders, and many other commonplace items. Katyusha waved Xiang onto the couch placed in front of the desk while Katyusha rummaged through a drawer in the desk. She forced a few innocuous pills into his open hand and forced a water bottle into the other.

"There we go. That should make you feel a little better." Katyusha chuckled.

Xiang examined the orange pills in his hand. They left orangey residue as the coating began to melt in his hot palm. Xiang looked up at Ukraine, scowling. He was reluctant to take the pills for fear of being poisoned.

"Can you not swallow pills?" she asked. Katyusha looked into his eyes and smiled genially, sympathetically.

"I can." He said with a small nod.

"Perhaps you'd prefer cold water."

"No, no, it's fine." He said.

"The sooner you take them, the better you'll feel." Katyusha insisted.

Symptoms of poisoning typically began once the poison hit the stomach and was absorbed into the blood stream. Less likely, the small intestine. The poison would likely halt breathing or heart by some painful means. Xiang decided that he could counteract the poison by eliciting a gag reflex, stroking the roof of his mouth if any new symptoms arose. With that, he flung the pills in his mouth and swallowed without a drink of water, as water would speed up the absorption process.

"You look so tired." She said. "Why don't you take a nap on that couch?"

"I'm fine." Xiang said firmly.

"I'll take you back to Natalia, then."

He was led back to the underground room where the others were waiting. Natalia, The beautiful woman was conducting a rapid physical examination, prodding the scar on Yao's back with an odd sort of baton.

"What's this?" she demanded.

"Scar." Yao replied.

"From?" Natalia prompted briskly.

"A sword."

"And this?" she asked, tapping a long, jagged scar that ran down his side.

"Another scar."

"I'm aware of that." She spat. "From?"

"None of your business." Yao said under his breath. He pulled his shirt back on and cut the examination short. The many scars and burns inflicted by Kiku himself many decades ago were scars that belonged to Yao and nobody else. Natalia raised an eyebrow and smacked the baton against her palm in an act of annoyance.

"Whatever. From now, you five are our prisoners. Ask no questions." She said firmly. The chilling smile reappeared, displaying a neat row of straight white teeth. That grin reached up to her maliciously glowing eyes that smoldered with bloodlust.

"Prisoners?" Yong Soo echoed, brow furrowing in disapproval. "Why?"

"Ask no questions." She repeated. A glower was sent his way.

"This isn't fair." Kiku said. His tone was glacial. No anger was visible on his still countenance, but Yao heard the ire in his voice.

"Well, you all decided to climb on the chopper." Alfred said bluntly. He folded his arms and shifted his sardonic gaze to Yao, who felt the balloon of humiliation and regret inflate within him. He did not waver under Alfred's critical stare. Kiku cleared his throat rather loudly at that point, and Meimei had a bitter frown on her face. Yong Soo appeared to be disgusted by his title as prisoner, and Xiang's moroseness was spreading to everyone else like the bacteria that multiplied inside him. Without so much as a harsh beckon, Natalia led them to their cell, a dank little room that was occupied by four more people that Yao and Kiku immediately recognized. One shook so violently that Yao thought he was having a seizure. Another had rivulets of dried blood on his face that matted his blond hair. Without hesitation, he smiled at the new prisoners and moved over to make room for them. Another prisoner had his arms folded tightly over his stomach, as if he was in pain. The last prisoner was asleep, or more likely dead given his physical condition. Yao recognized him immediately. Feliks Łukasiewicz. His left forearm was completely black and blue, swollen. Broken, perhaps. He was very thin and bloody. Yao sat down on the cold cement floor and caught the blankets and pillows thrown at him by Natalia, which he quickly distributed to his siblings. Once the click-clacking of Natalia's boots faded, the blond young man spoke.

"Hi." His voice was raspy from disuse. "I'm Tino."

"Yao. These are my siblings, Kiku, Meimei, Yong Soo, and Xiang."

"Nice to meet you all." Tino said with a small smile.

"I'm Toris. He's Raivis." Toris pointed to the trembling teenager in the corner. "And that one…that's Feliks."

"What happened to him?" Yong Soo asked curiously. He was both appalled and fascinated by the injuries Feliks had sustained.

Tino sighed and absentmindedly scratched a bit of dried blood from his face. It fell in his lap, a dark powder. Tino looked at Feliks with a painfully apologetic gleam in his eye.

"Feliks defied Ivan. You know Ivan, right?"

"Of course." Yao and Kiku replied. Ivan had been at their doorstep for the longest time. Kiku had been in wars against him, Yao received threats and invites from Ivan more often than he'd have liked.

"Ivan decided to torture him. He broke that arm, as you can see, and sliced him up here and there. I think a few ribs are broken as well, but Feliks returned a few hours ago and he just collapsed. I think he'll be all right, though." Tino said with a sure nod.

"Feliks is resilient." Toris muttered. Toris put his forehead against his knees and did not speak anymore.

"How long have you been here?" Kiku asked.

"I think about ten days. It's not terrible. We work most of the day, but sometimes Ivan gets mad and threatens us. And his sister likes to hurt us, too." Tino explained. Naively, Tino had complimented Natalia's hair and he received a beating that rendered his right leg useless for three days.

"Typical." Toris murmured.

"Just stay out of trouble and don't do anything except for work and follow orders. I know it sucks, but it's all you can do, unless you want to end up like Feliks…or worse." Tino added. Meimei drew breath to ask a question, but Tino put his hand up to silent her, uneasiness crossing his face. He leaned close and whispered, "Our prison guard is coming. He's around most of the time, so we have to speak quietly and avoid topics like these."

Smart boots clicked against the floor and reverberated from down the hallway, and the bearer of these boots was revealed. He wore glasses, and behind the thin pieces of glass his eyes were an insipid blue-green color. He curbed any emotion and maintained a deadpan, still expression. He held a rifle confidently in his arms, and his uniform was impeccably pressed and clean.

Tino's warm lilac eyes became stony, fixed on the guard's back. Yao sensed an animosity toward the guard emanating from Tino. Tino whispered, "Eduard von Bock."

* * *

The school year has started, so I'll update at longer intervals, especially since this is a difficult one to write.

Review.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

Heracles Karpusi was alone, high on Santorini, sitting on the white stairs that led up to his house. The TV was on inside, bearing the news of staggering casualty rates and proclaiming the apocalypse. Heracles gave a weary sigh. He wasn't bored, he'd spent his whole day brooding, relocating himself in and out of his house to get a breath of the salty maritime breeze. His handsome countenance was partially illuminated by the porch light, moths lazily flitting about it. Heracles sighed once again. He wasn't going to bother getting into the mess that the world was right now. On peaceful Santorini he was free to be neutral, free from gunfire and bombs and ruins. His mother's resting place had become a mass grave for the scores dead by the bombings. And yet, Heracles couldn't bring himself to anger over the attack. His olive green gaze snapped up to the cloudy sky, a quilt ready to burst and let loose torrents of warm water. He growled impatiently. More rain? The first raindrop fell on Heracles' furry forearm, dangling on a single wisp of hair and shining like a morsel of mercury. He flicked it away with the tip of his finger and waited to start pondering his circumstances until the rain drenched his shirt. Rivulets of rainwater tracked down his body, around his neck and across his cheeks like rivers on a map. Drops fell from the tip of his Adonic nose and plunged into his lap. A few adventurous and ambitious raindrops trekked over his lips and slipped into his mouth, only to be lackadaisically greeted by his tongue. The rain was salty, but strangely satisfying. Serenity reverberated throughout Heracles' hollow body. The rain concealed any signs of emotion—he knew better than to act out. Emotions raised treacherous waves and set the earth aquiver with fury. Yes, feelings were the most powerful, dangerous parts of the human—invisible yet domineering, the cogs of common sense, and at the same time, the key to the door sealing away the mind's deceptively simple infrastructure. Turn the key and jam a blind hand into the swirling tempest of thoughts and machinery, take hold of the first thing that fits into one's hand. Rip it from the balance and watch all motion stop, watch human thought wither.

And yet, Heracles had heard laments asking why Alfred and Ivan had done this. The answer was simple—emotions. Destroying humans, destroying the world. Like Hong Kong, Paris, New York City, London, Dubai. Athens. Cities and populations reduced to ashes. Heracles wondered if anyone would be left to document this horrifying miasma imposed by two impulsive young men. At twenty eight, twenty nine in two weeks, he was more mature, thoughtful than most of his fellow nations. Heracles frowned in disgust. These men called themselves nations yet they could not control themselves. Heracles' reverie was harshly broken by the jarring sound of the phone ringing. He traipsed into his house, sopping wet, and answered the phone.

"This is Heracles…" he said, trailing off. One his cats pressed itself against his legs, purring louder than an engine. He stooped down to pet it.

"Well, well, well. I didn't think you'd answer. In fact, I hoped you wouldn't." The voice was loud, heavily accented, and Heracles heard the grin in his tone.

"And I hoped you were dead, Sadik." Heracles responded. "What do you want?"

"Hmph. Likewise." Sadik said coldly. "Listen, we're in deep shit."

"Obviously." Heracles mumbled.

"I have one of the little Italians with me—" At this point, Heracles heard a "Shut the fuck up, asshole" from said Italian man—Lovino Vargas. "—and we're on some island here in the Aegean. Ios? Yeah. Where are you?"

"Does it matter?" Heracles prompted. "I'm on Santorini."

"Great. We're taking a ferry there." Sadik said decisively. "Ivan just attacked Paris for the third time. He knows where people are, and he knows we're alive. You, me, and Lovino can figure something out."

"Sadik, I don't want to team up with you." Heracles snarled.

"Ignorant brat." Sadik spat. "Better than getting fried by bombs."

"I disagree."

"We'll be there in a few hours."

Heracles flung the phone down and wrung rainwater out of his thick, wavy, hair. In jerky, furious motion, he removed his soaked shirt, throwing it in the sink. The time read nine forty four. Not late enough to sleep. Not that Heracles was tired. Hours passed, and Heracles heard black footsteps traipsing up the stairs meandering to his door. Heracles opened it before Sadik had a chance to knock. Sadik stood holding a rifle, wearing his fitted green coat and red hat at a jaunty angle on his head of messy, dark hair. Next to him stood Lovino Vargas in all his angstful glory. There was a dirty bandage wrapped around his upper arm, and he too held a rifle, appearing deceptively menacing.

"Nice place you have here," Sadik remarked as he crossed the threshold. The stone tile gave way to a hearty sound as the heels of his boots clicked on the floor. The walls were smooth and white, scents of sea salt, sweat, and food suspended in the air.

Heracles didn't reply and whisked them to the living room. Sadik made himself comfortable by crossing his legs and leaning into the plushy couch before he watched Heracles, hazel irises winking in the dim lighting.

"Come on, Heracles. I can see the fury in your eyes. You want to kill the man that destroyed your cities and citizens."

"I'm not angry. Tragedies happen," Heracles snorted, folding his arms.

"Oh, yeah?" Sadik taunted, raising his thick, expressive eyebrows in a maddeningly dubious little motion. "What do you have say about this, Lovino?"

"He's lying," Lovino sneered. Lovino could see the ire smoldering in Heracles' guarded green eyes. His fists were clenched, his body was tensed. No matter how clear his mind was his body was there to betray him.

"If you have no business here, leave." Heracles said coldly, gesturing vaguely to the door.

"Heracles, you've not been to Athens since the raids, have you?" Sadik questioned. "Bodies in the sea, and on the streets. Ashes rain from the sky and it's been two weeks since that day."

"And Istanbul, Ankara? Surely they are the same."

"But are you the same? I am irate. I cannot wait to destroy the men who did this, to spill their blood." Sadik said.

"As I said, things like this happen. This mess wouldn't have been caused if it wasn't for the inability to control one's emotions and impulses."

"So you're saying that Alfred Jones and Ivan Braginski are impulsive."

"Yes, but what are you getting at?" Heracles demanded impatiently.

"You consider anger impulsive. But you say you're not angry, therefore, not impulsive, which puts you in a perfect position to fight back since you claim to be so at peace about this tragedy."

"Twisting words seems to be your only talent." Heracles said wryly. "Use that on someone who cares."

Sadik sighed and rose from his place on the couch. He took a step toward Heracles, and before Heracles could see it coming, the barrel of a gun was pressed against his sternum. Heracles squirmed, calm, only to feel the barrel dig deeper into his skin.

"You will work with us, Heracles. And if you don't cooperate, I'll shoot you."

"Right. You raised me, I doubt you'd be able to shoot me." Heracles said coolly.

"Which is why I brought Lovino." Sadik chuckled. "So what'll it be, Heracles?"

"Kill me." Heracles said sternly. He closed his eyes and leaned into the cushions of the couch. Desperation, exasperation, anger, envy. Petty feelings, powerful incentives, the very motives behind the gun against his chest. Heracles wouldn't fight back—he planned to stay deadpan, emotionless, which would keep him out of unnecessary trouble. He had two options—fight or die. Death would free him from worldly pains and pleasures that he so often pondered, only to face that idea that life was too long, and even longer since he was a nation. Greece's time was up—he'd been around for a long time, and his rich history was persevered in text books and on the tongues of the world's sparse survivors. His mother's ruins were desecrated by the civilian bodies thrown into the underworld by the puerile quarrel of two grown men.

"I can't believe you." Sadik quavered.

"Shoot me." Heracles said, louder, firmer.

"Lovino."

Another gun was pressed to Heracles' chest.

"Any last words?" Lovino asked.

Heracles slowly shook his head. He was at peace. There'd be no time to feel the pain of the gunshot. It'd all be over before Heracles would ever realize it.

"Lovino, wait. Don't shoot him."

Heracles opened his eyes, face blank as the sheet of paper that was meant to be his will, sitting on the kitchen table. Sadik took a step back and sighed, smiling ruefully.

"Oh, Heracles. I can't kill you." Sadik said tearfully. "Please, please work with us."

"Never. Get out of my house." Heracles snapped. He leapt up from his place on the sofa and lowered at Sadik. Heracles was typically laid back and apathetic, but if his blood was stirred enough he'd become incensed.

"Heracles, you'd be very helpful in this..." Sadik said solemnly. "Do it for your mother, for your people, don't you love them so?"

"That has nothing to do with why I don't want to fight. It's a waste—what do we know about Ivan and Alfred—"

"That's what supposed to find out, idiot." Lovino snapped, wildly gesticulating. His gestures held no meaning to Heracles. "If we sit around, we're not going to get shit done. Shit needs to get done before we fuck shit up."

"And, Heracles, you and I have something in common—" Sadik said. His voice was slicker than oil, a cloying, crooning tone of voice that was pointed as needle, trying to wheedle itself into Heracle's psyche. "—wisdom. We've been around for long enough to know the tricks and traps of enemies."

"If I help you, will you leave me alone?" Heracles grumbled.

"Only after we get our revenge." Sadik replied, smirking. "I will never contact you again after that."

Sadik thrust his hand out, awaiting Heracles' handshake. Heracles seemed to balk; he folded his arms and frowned deeply, weighing his options on a neutral scale. With trepidation but firmness, Heracles' fingers closed around Sadik's warm, gloved hand. After all, Sadik wasn't asking Heracles to sign his name in blood upon a piece of parchment.

;;;

Antonio jammed the butt of the rifle into the wet ground and fell on one knee, world tipping from side to side, sight twisted by starvation and ache. He shivered as a cold, rainy wind sharp as a whetted knife barraged him. Rain fell in heavy, stifling sheets, and wet hair clung to his cheek and neck. Droplets dangled off his eyelashes and rivulets of rainwater coursed down his chest, forming a web of cold water than threatened to strangle him. With each little move of his left arm, Antonio felt glass, buried under infection and skin slice deeper. Deep, choppy lacerations like fissures in the earth marred that arm, swollen and red, seeping thick pus. The raw pain caused to tears to spring up in his eyes. If Antonio didn't die of starvation, he'd surely succumb to a raging infection. Antonio sighed and peacefully overlooked the vast field that spread in front of him. The countryside was so idyllic, such a beautiful façade of peace.

At least the smell of smoke would be washed out of his clothing. Antonio was in Barcelona that day, out on the town, but made a hurried trip to Madrid after the bombs hit, and Barcelona was hit soon after he left. He was in the countryside of France…somewhere. Antonio didn't know if he was in the south or north, but that didn't matter at that moment.

"Hey, you, wake up." A stern, deadpan voiced sounded above Antonio.

"God?"

"Nice try." Sven snapped, landing a kick to Antonio's side. "Get up."

Antonio gasped in pain and managed to prop himself up on his elbows. He rubbed rainwater out of his eyes and blinked, looking right into Sven's stony face. Antonio staggered upright and swayed on the spot, and shot a questioning gaze at Sven.

"Don't look at me like that." Sven snapped. His hazel eyes trailed to the swollen, infected cuts on Antonio's arm.

"Por Dios," Antonio mumbled. He couldn't stand Sven—old rivalries soured and ruined any relationship they could have had. In his desperate hour, Antonio was too pained and exhausted to be angry at Sven's presence. "Why are you here?"

"My country was wiped off the face of the earth." Sven said flatly. "I've 'teamed up' with Kirkland and Bonnefoi."

"Oh, good thing Francis is alive. Couldn't say the same for Arthur though. Where am I?" Antonio asked breathlessly.

"France." Sven answered. "Or something. Who the fuck knows. Point is, you're coming with me."

"Where are you taking me?" Antonio asked.

"Shut up and don't move. Look."

Sven discreetly pointed up at the gray sky, bringing a low-flying speck to Antonio's attention. He squinted; the image became clear. A jet was zipping across the sky. It was unmarked, but as it flew by Antonio heard the low murmur of warning in his head. As the threat drew closer, adrenaline leaked into Antonio's blood. His heartbeat skittered and his hunger was blanketed by heavy anxiety.

"That thing is armed." Sven said. "Heading west."

"How did you know I was here?"

"Tipoff from a survivor that was coming from some city. Said he saw a guy on the side of the road. I assumed that was you, since you're incapable of doing anything that makes sense."

"That reminds me, Sven. Screwed any fourteen year olds lately?" Antonio said coldly. His lips were drawn to the side by the fingers of malice. The famously green eyes that were so cheerful became piercing, furious, and paired with that smile Antonio took on a ghastly appearance. Sven was unfazed.

"Where's your bitch?" Sven retorted. "Dead, I hope."

"Like your sister?" Antonio felt the sting of his own words, but lapped up the satisfaction that flooded him to see Sven go rigid, like a flagpole. Antonio had struck a nerve at point blank range. The little color in Sven's face fled from imminent rage. Antonio gripped his rifle tighter, seeing a twitch in Sven's right hand.

"You…?"

"I saw Anna get shot, "Antonio trailed off, finding he was unable to continue as sweet memories of Anna blurred his vision. Her laughter rang strong in his ears, and he remembered the good old days, the days he was arm in arm with Lovino and Anna, roaming the tomato fields under the maternal, comforting sunlight. Summer nights on the patio of Spain's hacienda, Anna at his side in the wars against the man that stood before Antonio, Anna's brother.

"Who killed her?" Sven asked. His anger had been replaced by solemnity.

"I don't know, some guy in uniform." Antonio said weakly. "I couldn't save her, but I tried. I couldn't get to her in time, because a bomb hit right then. And…"

Sven looked down at the wet grass, pensive. His eyebrows were cocked downward in a morose frown. He finally shrugged and waved Antonio over brusquely, a gesture for Antonio to follow.

"Nothing can be changed now. She's dead, and that's all there is to it." Sven grumbled. "She wasn't that much to me."

"But she was your sister." Antonio pointed out. If he had the energy, he'd be mourning her. But Antonio was numbed by the cold, unfit in rational thought due to hunger. He was hardly in a condition to hold a conversation.

"Yes. She was." Sven said in clipped tone.

"You're telling me you won't miss her?" Antonio asked, rather incredulous.

"Get in the car." Sven harrumphed. "Shut up and don't annoy me."

Antonio awoke on the cold, dusty floor of the remains of a building that bore a repulsive unfamiliarity. He found himself looking through a large gap in the ceiling at a bleak blue sky. Ashes and cinders were suspended in the still air, but he had long grown accustomed to that scent. Soon, it would be a pleasant aroma over the noisome smell of human decay. The walls were faded in color, many were but crumbs on the ground, and some were gray and others were black. Spindly remains of furniture were strewn about.

"Oh, you're alive." Arthur Kirkland stood before Antonio, scowling as always. He was wearier than ever, with his mouth set in a grim line, hairy eyebrows furrowed in distaste and frustration. "Don't ask questions. You were almost dead when you arrived in Paris about three days ago—in fact, you may have noticed that your arm in bandage and your wounds were drained, courtesy of Sven. We were attacked there and fled. We're in Moscow right now. "

Antonio kept his silence, brooding. He had missed out on three crucial days of life, two days that would never return.

"Do we have any plans?" Antonio prompted.

"Sven's in the main base with Francis." Arthur said firmly. "One more thing—there are a few soldiers wandering around here. If they find us, they'll shoot us—all three are armed with rifles, and one has a sword. Stay quiet and be prepared to hide."

Antonio lifted himself from his place on the floor and looked around with a shaking vision and pounding in his ears. Sven sat against a wall, leaning limply against it, exhaustedly expressionless. Lackluster hazel eyes watched the blooming algae of ash rest peacefully upon the dark, murky waters. He cleared his throat and coughed, dislodging cinders from his throat. Arthur Kirkland rested his head on his knees, arms folded to keep his trembling hands still. Francis mournfully stared up above.

"The fact is that this isn't going to work unless we team up with people." Sven growled irritably. From the corner of his mouth hung an empty pipe, bobbing hypnotically as he spoke. He had run out of smoking material, and had been very testy since. Francis assumed he was suffering from mild withdrawal symptoms, as Sven couldn't sleep at night anymore. Sven ran a hand through his impossibly messy hair and rubbed his eyes.

"No shit, Sherlock." Arthur snapped.

"Why don't you shut up?" Sven retorted. "As I was saying," he lowered at Arthur, "Four of us can't just bust in and shoot people up, as proposed by Francis."

"Technically, we can." Antonio put in. "Gilbert busted in not too long ago."

"Dumb luck." Sven muttered. "They probably know he infiltrated the base, but without knowing how big the base is, how many prisoners, how many locations, and how many people are serving Ivan and Alfred, we are in no position to do anything. But," Sven paused to for a moment. He looked up in a contemplative fashion and then brought his gaze back to the river. "I'm not against the idea of sneaking in on recon—unarmed—to find out how big it is, and other shit too."

"Unarmed? You must be insane." Francis chided, smiling. He flipped spectacularly wavy hair off of his shoulder and peered curiously at Sven, eyebrow quirked downward in a reproachful gesture. The longer Francis stared, the more he noted Sven's striking looks. "We were just attacked for the third time."

Three air raids later and they were still not dead. Ivan and Alfred knew they were alive. The red target had, for a moment, been in Paris. And it would lock onto them very soon. The four were forlorn in the enemy's territory, and a single question burn within their skulls—why were they not dead yet?

"No, no, Sven actually has a point. If we go in armed, we'll be a threat to anyone that sees us. Maybe we can pull off the civilian look." Antonio said with a shrug.

"Like hell we'd be considered civilians." Arthur mumbled. "Everyone knows who we are."

"Oh, fuck it." Sven snapped with a dismissive gesture. He rose from his place on the stone ground, a symphony of clicks sounded from his spine. "You pussies are going to die alone. I'm going."

"You'll die." Arthur spat.

"I'll be the one to decide that," Sven returned with a rare smirk. The smile's presence hid anxiety, or was perhaps present as a response to overwhelming fear. Sven turned on the heel of his well-worn boots and ascended into the gray zone.

;;;;

Gilbert took a breath of the stale air that was fed to him through the mask he wore over his face, squinting to get a better look at the gray, charred ground below. Nothing out of the ordinary—but the altitude made getting images near impossible. The only thing to do would be to land and explore Moscow himself without Ludwig finding out.

"Gilbert, don't try anything funny." Ludwig's voice cackled over the radio. Ludwig had a conditional, uncanny ability to read minds.

"West, chill out. I'm gonna do what I gotta do." Gilbert said dismissively, flipping the radio off. His mind had been made up. Now to find an empty, smooth highway to land on nearby. An enthusiastic smile covered his nerves on Gilbert's pallid face as the dark highway became closer. Gilbert knew this was practically suicide, but it had to be done. The overpowering noise of the jet would surely alert Ivan, and he had fighter jets too, dormant in a hangar somewhere. The destruction left behind made it a comfortable location for snipers.

Gilbert clambered out of the jet in a lissome motion and nabbed a rifle he had stashed nearby, slinging it over his back and beginning a fast, dignified walk to the ruins of the Kremlin, up ahead. A vile, haunting wind brushed the vestiges of Moscow, raising dust, dirt, and old cinders from the ground. The asphyxiating ashes that hung in the smoggy air aggravated Gilbert's lungs, and he found it difficult to stifle the convulsive coughs that welled up inside him. The red walls of the Kremlin were shrouded in silver cinders, ruins of buildings created a mountain range of stone. Glass sprinkled the ground like bitter sugar crystals. Gilbert paused and observed his surrounds before taking a step into the open, where he'd be feasted upon by any sniper that hid behind rubble. Gilbert brushed the thought aside and grinned as soon as the heel of his boot crossed the threshold to complete threat. Upon taking his first full step, a thin stream of adrenaline trickled into his blood. How he relished every heartbeat that sounded in his head like an alarm, every twitch of the finger as he sprinted across the open ground, a blur of almighty Prussian blue. Gilbert leapt into the structure of a large, rectangular building, and he pressed himself against a wall, breathing hard, savage grin claiming half of his face.

The cloudy evening cast a misty glow on the insides of the building, the state palace. Gilbert smirked. Any traces of majesty were gone, an observation that brought him glee. How pathetic that not a lonely guard stood in the palace of the great Russian Federation. He roamed about for an hour or so, peering down long corridors, eyes peeled for any oddities of humans as his breath returned. Gilbert was satisfied with the full reverberation of his foots against the floor, the sound echoing high above him like a church bell. And then another sound joined the click-clack of his boots. A crunch, and high-pitched crack of a tile. Gilbert tapped it with his heel and frowned. There was something underneath. He removed the tile and patted the manmade indentation in the wood that was under the tile. What's this? Experimentally, Gilbert slid his fingers in and pulled up. With a series of loud cracks, tiles separated from grout and Gilbert lifted a trapdoor that revealed a dark staircase that led underground.

"Ah, Ich bin ein Gewinner." Gilbert muttered to himself, raising an eyebrow in amusement. The classic trapdoor. How childish for the great Ivan. He descended the stairs and the trapdoor fell closed over him. Gilbert gave the trapdoor a firm push, and it yielded. He wasn't trapped—yet. With that, Gilbert continued. The stairwell was dark as pitch until Gilbert noted a cheap, industrial lamp that only added more mystery to his surroundings. Cement walls, cement floor. Gilbert was reminded of an army bunker from the Second World War. Gilbert shrugged and moved on, descending three flights until the stairs ended. He met silence upon resting his ear against the door, and rested a hand on the doorknob that he turned meticulously to the right—_click_. The door was unlocked, and gave way to him. He pulled it toward him a few centimeters and pressed the side of his face against the crack, one red eye glinting as it checked the surroundings. A long, strangely symmetrical hallway stretched in front of him, doors dotting the dingy cinderblock walls. His eyes roved the ceiling, checking for security cameras. Nothing. Gilbert held the door open just so and slipped through. Now that he was in the corridor, its low ceilings give it a tunnel like feel, and in the distance Gilbert could make out a pair of heavy double doors. Breathing felt like an oppressive, offensive act as Gilbert strode down the tunnel. At each door Gilbert looked inside through the rectangular windows each door featured. Just a few counters and stools around tables, a low quality, light duty science lab, Gilbert assumed. And then, a horrid scream erupted from nearby, carrying from up the hallway. Interest piqued, Gilbert broke into a sprint and ran to the source of the screaming, peering into the window of the room from where the screaming came.

Gilbert gasped so sharply his lungs hurt, and he had to lock his knees to keep from sinking to the floor.

Inside that room, that chamber, Natalia Braginskaya was cutting a live man from his sternum to his hips with a scalpel that glinted under the light. The young man was strapped down, thrashing convulsively in response to torture. The shrieks of primal agony that escaped his lips did not do the pain yet those shrieks did not do the unrelenting slicing of the scalpel justice, nor did they compensate for the crippling exploitation of his own organs. Gilbert knew it was the hurt inside that yelled louder than the young man himself. And then, he stopped screaming. He had no breath inside him, as if clawed hands were squeezing his lungs. And when he lifted his head off of the steel table he was on, he saw gloved hands inside him, blood seeping from the incision Natalia had created. The young man's head hit the table with a dull thud, eyes open, countenance gray with shock. He was unconscious.

Natalia moved aside, and Gilbert caught sight of who it was. He recognized him, one of the Asian nations. And standing nearby Gilbert saw Feliks, Tino, Yao, and Kiku watch in absolute horror, the kind of horror that had them rooted to the spot. The repulsion so inexorable that neither could faint, the abject fear so captivating that their poor stares could not stray from the crimson work of Natalia. Yao was looking fixedly at the ceiling, Kiku was in silent tears. Tino had a trembling hand over his mouth, wide eyed. Feliks watched with a blank, flummoxed expression, shivering. Gilbert himself was rooted to the spot, only until Feliks' gaze snapped up from the vivisection and met Gilbert's. Feliks mouthed something that Gilbert could not make out—lip reading wasn't his specialty. But Feliks' expression was proof enough that they'd all been tortured before, and their futures were bleak. What next? Gilbert couldn't stuff them all in his jet and save them. He'd not even be able to fit one person, though if he tried, he could, and it would be a danger.

Gilbert's fingers itched to pull that trigger that would save the prisoners and end Natalia's life, but he couldn't. It would irresponsible to leave them hanging like that, at the risk of more torture. Gilbert offered a shaky smile and a curt wave to Feliks, who returned the gesture with a crestfallen, yet understanding knitting of the eyebrows.

Gilbert spun on his heel and made a mad dash down the hallway, heartbeat threatening to explode his skull. Valuable information had been saved to memory. He didn't think once as he stomped up the stairs, skipping two steps, for fear of losing his focus in escaping from this prison. Gilbert flung the trapdoor open and sprinted out of the building, shooting across the no man's land between his airplane and the Palace like a rogue bullet. The ashes stung his eyes and lit a conflagration of pain and sputtering in his lungs, but he did not dare to slow down. Gilbert clambered into his airplane, gasping for breath and took off from the ground at a sharp angle that propelled him high into the sky, over the wall of clouds.

"Ludwig, I saw them." Gilbert said urgently, wheezing. He hoped the radio didn't pick up the roiling anxiety in his tone.

"What?" Ludwig demanded.

"The prisoners. I saw them. One was…" Gilbert couldn't saw the word without stomach contents rising dangerously close to his throat. He forced a swallow. "Can I tell you when I get back, Ludwig?"

"Of course, Gilbert." Ludwig said with relief. "Land in Salzburg. I've relocated to Roderich's house. Dresden and Frankfurt were bombed while you were in Moscow."

"Right, I'll land there." Gilbert had heard and processed Ludwig's last sentence, but was too harried to continue speaking. Air pressure posed an uphill battle for his ravaged lungs, housing ash and grime.

;;;;;

Seated comfortably in one of the couches in Roderich's living room, Gilbert was scrutinized by Vash, Liese, Ludwig, Feliciano, and Ludwig. A beer had been forced into his hand, hoping it would give some color to his face. Gilbert had arrived with a smile that was not of triumph or arrogance, but an empty, soulless grin, ashen faced and speaking quietly.

"First off—" Ludwig paused to massage his temples. Gilbert was such a troublesome, reckless man. Sometimes, Ludwig was ashamed to call him his older brother. Gilbert was narcissistic and carried a strong conviction with him that he was invincible, which was the reason he was alive after being wiped off the map as a nation. "Tell me how you managed to sneak in and not get caught."

"It's sounds like a fairy tale, to be honest." Vash grumbled, folding his arms. "Barely credible."

"It was easy, Vashy-boy. I parked my plane outside the Kremlin and walked into that palace. I searched around and happened to find this trapdoor that led underground, and went down three flights or so. Then there was this long ass hallway that stretched a goddamn mile—" to illustrate his point, Gilbert spread his arms. "Like a hospital hallway, all symmetrical with doors and crappy lighting. Most of the doors were of science labs or something. And then, I heard the screaming from up the hall. So I ran like hell and looked in the door where it was coming from. And there…" Gilbert paused for a moment, letting out a weary sigh. Fatigue overcame him, and mild nausea circled like a whirlpool in his stomach. "Natalia was vivisecting this one guy, an Asian dude I've seen at world conferences."

"A vivisection?" Feliciano's eyes went wide. "What good will that do?"

"Yeah." Gilbert said quietly. "Seems like Ivan's running a torture factory. And Tino, Yao, Kiku, and damn Feliks were being forced to watch."

"They're the ones that would try to escape." Roderich pointed out. He adjusted his glasses reflexively and took a prim sip of wine. Ludwig, Roderich, and Gilbert all knew Feliks too well. Feliks, like Gilbert, refused to fall.

"Tino was standing funny and Feliks was all bruised and stuff." Gilbert said. The memory smoldered in mind. He'd not sleep tonight. "I wanted to shoot Natalia, but I didn't because I couldn't stuff all the prisoners in my jet."

"And there were no guards, snipers, nothing?" Vash questioned, eyebrow rising in a dubious, arrogant little motion.

"No." Gilbert shook his head incredulously. It may have been a highly convenient, curious coincidence. "Weird shit, right? To think that Ivan has that place unguarded."

"He must think we're all dead." Liese said, intrigued. "And you said you found a trapdoor. Maybe he thought no one would find it, because there's probably more."

"Moscow was flattened. Ivan killed his own people as a cover up." Gilbert said. He ran a hand through his hair and frowned at the ashes that stuck to his uniform. "But yeah, I didn't see any guards or jets or anything. Natalia was wearing a gray uniform, though."

"Gray uniform, yes, that's what Antonio said when I spoke to him. He saw them all over Barcelona, shooting survivors." Roderich gracefully repressed a yawn and closed his eyes for a moment. Lack of sleep was wholly evident on him, and was threatening to hijack his nervous system. Roderich looked close to sleep. "He is alive and currently with Sven, Arthur, and Francis."

"I knew Tonio would be alive." Gilbert snickered.

Feliciano made a noise in his throat that was somewhere between a sob and sigh. He had harbored a shining beacon of hope that Antonio had been with Lovino. He was going to say something, but his thought was interrupted by a ringing phone. Roderich answered it at once.

"I'm going to bed." Vash mumbled, lumbering out of the sitting area.

* * *

I'm alive lol jk. Reviews will motivate me, so go for it.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

_What a beautiful March day it had been in Moscow. The sky was blue as ever, the city buzzed with life. Greenery sprouted amongst the concrete, the river was placid and smooth. But beauty is only a sheath of pretense, of lies for what exists beyond the ephemeral pulchritude. Ivan raised a bottle of vodka to his lips and took a restrained sip from it, setting the bottle back down on his desk with a dull chink. Alfred Jones sat in front of him, staring him down with those blazing blue eyes, hot words sizzling on his lips as he awaited Ivan's response. _

_ "Let me think…" Ivan said in that maddeningly cloying tone. "I cannot accept your offer given your stipulations." _

_ "Why not?" Alfred demanded, lifting his arms in an act of exasperation. "It'd be much safer with me."_

_ "Alfred, my weapons are my weapons." Ivan said firmly. "I cannot let you have them."_

_ "They'd still be yours, but would be in America." Alfred said for the tenth time. "As I said, it's more convenient for all—" _

_ "Let me be frank: No." Ivan leaned over his desk, eyes wide and glowing, hot coals of violet that were heated by the glacial smile that presented itself on Russia's pallid countenance. "The Cold War is not yet over." _

_ Alfred scrutinized him. __All will be one with Russia. Those words echoed like the tolling of bells in his head. Alfred folded his arms and huffed in disbelief. He hated that __sickening smirk, forecasting imminent terror, carved into Ivan's face by a serrated, rusted blade. _

_ "Whatever, you're just bitter because you lost." Alfred snorted. "Look, if you want to start a war, then go ahead. I'll win—the hero always wins."_

_ "There will be no war." Ivan said impassively. "__До свидания, Alfred." _

;;;;;

Feliciano sucked in a breath when he saw Elizaveta confined to a hospital bed, bound by tubes and needles in her arm. She was pale, but appeared to have red dye injected into her cheeks, rosy with fever. Her hair was stringy and spread like a web over the pillow, and the green eyes that previously shined with vivacity were glassy and dull, magnified by the cadaverous dark circles under her eyes. Upon seeing Feliciano, she uttered a breathy hello and gave a stricken, apologetic smile. Roderich gave her a kiss hello and made himself comfortable on the side of her bed. Gilbert rooted himself at the foot of her bed and Liese stood at her bedside.

"Lizzy…" Feliciano made a futile attempt to compose himself. "H-How are you feeling?"

Elizaveta shrugged, too tired to speak. She could hardly keep her eyes open, despite the searing pain that came from the infected wounds that covered her body. Roderich took her hand and stroked it with his thumb, staring intently into her face. Feliciano found that looking at Roderich was far too painful—Roderich was white as the sheets he sat on, tense, watching his wife apprehensively. Prussia was staring at the door to her room fixed, afraid to look at Elizaveta in her final moments. Gilbert noticed her sporadic, irregular breathing. He, a former soldier, knew that death was imminent.

"Stay awake, Elizaveta." Roderich said gently, inching closer to her. Elizaveta looked at him bleakly. Her eyes closed and let a breath out.

"I'm awake, Roderich." She said quietly, opening her eyes again. "Just talk to me."

"Elizaveta, don't scare me." Roderich said tensely.

"I'm not trying to." She responded calmly. Graced by a spurt of strength, she sat up and studied them all. "I'm not dead yet, so don't be sad."

Roderich watched her with wide violet eyes and stifled a gasp at that statement. He looked down into his lap.

"It's great to have you all here," Elizaveta said. She chuckled contently and added, "You know, all of you are in my will. But that won't be necessary. When I get back to the house we can do fun things."

"And help survivors," Liese, the do-gooder, piped up enthusiastically.

"R-Right." Feliciano said nervously. He offered a wavering smile.

"I've been preparing a dance for all of you to see." Elizaveta was an avid dancer. She could dance anything with great skills, from mazurkas, Hungarian dances, ballet, tango, and waltzes. "And Roderich will play his beautiful music, right, dear?"

Roderich, hunched over like a forlorn doll, nodded slowly. Feliciano noted a few tears fall into his lap. Sunlight illuminated the tears that shone like crystals on the leg Roderich's pants. Light shone on Elizaveta's dirty hair, and caught the wedding ring on the fourth finger of her hand. She gazed at her husband, green eyes placid as the river that flowed through Salzburg. There was an air of eerie acceptance to Elizaveta, and that struck fear within Feliciano.

"Liz, when you get back we're going to have a drinking contest." Gilbert harrumphed, running a hand through his bedhead mop of hair.

"I'll beat you. I've had so many drugs pumped into me the past few days I can handle anything." Elizaveta challenged, smirking. She winced as a new pain erupted in her leg. The doctors weren't sure she'd walk correctly again, but that wouldn't stop her. Elizaveta had other plans that were significantly more important.

This was further proven when she walked out of the hospital arm in arm with Roderich on her own two legs three days later. She was wan but her eyes had the flame of life burning strong behind green irises.

;;;;;

He was a relatively attractive young man, with wavy blond hair and crisp blue eyes, but due to his lack of personality he seemed to blend in with the charred world around him, especially in the gray overcoat he wore. Matthew Williams didn't know what he was. He wore the uniform of his brother, but his heart was elsewhere, with the prisoners. Matthew dragged his feet along the tile. The sound his boots made appealed to him, and at the same, the echo haunted him. The ream of documents he held had become weighty, and he shifted them onto his hip before continuing, forgetting, only for a moment, what his original task was. Ivan had a proclivity of assigning meager tasks to Matthew while Alfred did important things that Matthew was not allowed to know. That Matthew would never be allowed to know, and that he didn't want to know. Matthew slipped from his reverie upon seeing Eduard march toward him in a rather pompous, dignified fashion, back straight and head held high.

"The records?" he prompted, holding his hand out. His gloved hands were stained with something dark and powdery.

"Uhh…right, yeah." Matthew hesitated—was that dried blood on his hands? Matthew dumped the papers into Eduard's hands, and he deftly secured them in a tight grasp. Eduard looked down at the files and rifled through them.

"These prisoners are so…" Eduard clicked his tongue as he searched for the word. "Simple-minded. Feliks is hell bent on escaping."

"Oh." Matthew said dryly. "Um, that's…useless."

"Quite," Eduard said with an unfitting smirk. "I'm going to lunch."

And once his footsteps faded, Matthew turned on his heel and headed straight to where the prisoners were being held. Eduard was on his break, leaving the cell unguarded. Matthew slinked into the antechamber, unnoticed even by the prisoners, who were speaking in terse, hushed voices that diminished to a silence when they finally noticed Matthew. Meimei and Kiku were sitting in corner of the cell, and Kiku had draped an arm around her shoulders. Raivis, nearly emaciated, was huddled up. Toris sat in the middle of the cell with Feliks at his side. They were weary and hollow-eyed.

"Hi," Matthew said timidly.

"Hello, Matthew." Yao said rather stiffly. A head of dark hair rested in his lap. Xiang was asleep, more likely comatose. His shirt was slightly open, and Matthew found it difficult to repress the shiver that thrashed down his spine when he took note of the long red scar running down his torso.

"Do any of you need anything?" Matthew asked quietly.

"To get out of here," Feliks muttered snidely. His left arm had been bandaged, courtesy of Katyusha, who visited often and slipped the prisoners snacks and other little things, tears in her wide blue eyes.

"Not really," Tino sighed. "Why are we here, Matthew? Ivan doesn't need prisoners. Your brother doesn't, either."

"I don't know." Matthew answered apologetically. "I have no idea what's going on."

"Hm." Tino hummed and nudged the person sitting next to him.

"What?" the young man prompted, brushing platinum blonde hair out of his eyes. He, like Ivan, had violet eyes that were a shamelessly beautiful shade of lavender. Matthew had never seen him before.

"What's your name?" Matthew asked.

"Freyr," he responded dryly.

"He joined us a week ago," Tino said, tousling Freyr's hair in a brotherly fashion. Freyr bristled with irritation and shoved Tino away.

"Oh. Just be careful." Matthew said. He blinked a few times and was a little bit surprised to find he was tearing up. Matthew was weighed down with anxiety, but it was reality that saddened him the most. He could do nothing to free these people whose future was bleak. He received orders and executed them without a second thought. An automaton.

"Whatever." Freyr mumbled. "It's not like what happens matters, anyway."

"That's not true…" Matthew said softly. The longer he peered at Freyr, the more familiar he looked. He'd seen that countenance somewhere before, and the jaded look of his eye Matthew had seen fairly recently. But where? Then Matthew remembered—Freyr's older brother. Adrian Folkestad was the right hand man of Alfred, and strode up and down the headquarters, expressionless and bored. He was quite tall, taller than Matthew, and had a rifle strapped to his back. The two had spoken only once. And upon turning to leave, Matthew froze upon seeing Adrian standing in the doorway.

"I presume you have other things to do?" Adrian prompted pointedly. He reached for the rifle and said, "I'm reporting you to Braginski."

"I…yes, of course." Matthew said, bowing his head. He scampered out of the room. But Adrian stayed. Adrian surveyed the prisoners with those regal cadet blue eyes of his. Even in the bleak light, his wavy, well kept hair shone. Then, he removed his weapon from his back

"What are you doing?" Hesitation and fear sounded in Tino's normally smooth voice. "What are you doing, Adrian?"

"Relax." Adrian said. Without warning, he stepped forward and slipped the rifle through the bars. "It's armed, and you will need it at some point in the future."

Adrian was gone before any questions could be asked. Tino held the rifle, weighty in his arms, and didn't bother holding back the tears that threatened to spill over his eyelids. He didn't know where this qualm of emotion came from, but having the rifle in his hands gave him such a sense of power, thrusting him back into the days of the second World War, the days he braved roaring, black winters with a sniper rifle flung over his back. Then he realized he was in the same perilous position he was in some seventy years ago. Seventy years…Finland flexed his left hand, his dominant hand. Not one wrinkle, no knobbly knuckles disfigured by arthritis. A few prominent veins were the soft mountain range of his hands, with a few innocuous, fading scars. How curious it was to be preserved as a twenty year old man while others diminished with the passing of time.

;;;;;

_A vile, haunting wind brushed the vestiges of Moscow, raising dust, dirt, and old cinders from the ground. The three were armed with fury and revenge was on their mind. One of the men sipped beer from a can, leaning nonchalantly against a skeletal wall of a standing building. He gazed up at the sky, torn clouds letting gray light touch the earth. He grimaced and tossed the can into the air, sending it flying with a soccer kick. He gave a loud sigh and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Next to him stood a man with well kept, wavy blond hair that shone even in the bleak light. His eyes, a regal cadet blue color, were guarded and pensive as he surveyed the horizon with his arms folded. The last man was well over six feet tall, and stylish glasses were perched smartly on his nose, sword at his waist._

"_I don't care what you say, Adrian, we need to team up with others." Look, I know Freyr is your brother and all, but there are more people there. Ivan royally screwed the world over."_

"_You cannot understand my circumstances," Adrian Folkestad said dismissively. He remembered the unnerving, sinking feeling upon disembarking in Reykjavik to find it the way it was over one thousand years ago—not a soul in sight. "Ivan and Alfred won't say anything about their plans." Adrian murmured. "They're suspicious that we aren't with them for the right reasons."_

"_We aren't," Berwald grunted. Instead of panicking like the rest of the world, the three decided to follow the old maxim—keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Rescuing the prisoners was not going to be such an easy task, Adrian didn't realize it. He was so hell bent on saving his brother that mutiny had begun to sway like fire in Adrian's eyes. Berwald had a visceral notion that they'd become prisoners if they didn't act quickly. His thoughts were broken when he heard the distant rumble of a fighter jet from some distance away. _

;;;;;

"Twat," Arthur muttered.

"I'm going with him," Antonio leapt up from the ground and snatched a rifle, eyes blazing. "He saved my life," Antonio pointed to the long, raw scar that ran from his elbow to his wrist—Sven's handiwork. Sven was brave enough to take up the role of a surgeon and drain that possessive infection that had formed in Antonio's arm. Francis sent a prolonged state Antonio's way, and nodded solemnly and waved him off, muttering something that sounded like a prayer in French.

Antonio fell into a comfortable jog as he ran after Sven, a vague silhouette in the gray air, peppered with cinders and dust. He fell into step with Sven who barely acknowledged Antonio and continued to tread through the rubble. He patted his pockets for cannabis absentmindedly.

"Thanks," Antonio said sternly.

"For?" Sven prompted irritably, removing the empty pipe from his lips. He peered at Antonio dubiously, swinging a leg over crimson vestiges of the royal Kremlin.

"For…" Antonio's lip gave a twitch of annoyance, and he almost let a laugh slip. "For saving me."

"Oh." Sven sent him a cursory glance. "Yeah, don't worry about it."

"I thought you'd let me die," Antonio laughed dryly.

"Mmhmm, whatever. You know that we may not come out of this place, right?" Sven mumbled, inclining his head toward the buildings up ahead.

"Yes," Antonio's hesitant response hung in the dense air.

Sven harrumphed and shrugged his shoulders, marking the end of conversation. A naked expanse of cement and cobblestones rested before them, barricaded by the old rose-red pieces of the Kremlin walls. Blocky structures were barely visible in the thick air, and without a second thought, Antonio and Sven took a step into a new frontier. They strode into the closest building, lithely walking over shattered, previously ornate light fixtures. Sven stopped short, and Antonio followed suit.

"Get down," Sven whispered urgently, crouching low behind remainders of furniture. Antonio wanted to ask, but Sven gave a slight jerk of his head to the left, which brought two men wearing the famous gray overcoats to Antonio's attention. They stepped into the bleak light. Wavy, well-kept ash blonde hair curled about the nape of his neck. Pale lips were set in a morose line. The peaked cap he wore cast a shadow over his eyes. The man next to him was slightly taller and stood in the shadows.

"Did you see the prisoners?" one of them asked. He had a thick accent that matched well with his loud voice. Sven frowned and leaned closer. In a few seconds he forced himself to think of that voice as unfamiliar, when, in truth, it was the voice of his best friend.

"I did," the second one replied. He too bore a familiar accent, however, his was vaguer and he spoke quietly. Sven and Antonio strained to hear him.

"And?" the taller man had begun to pace—in doing so, he stepped into the light and Sven stifled a gasp. Mathias Kohler, Sven's best friend, wore the gray overcoat. Mathias growled as he ran glove hand through his wild hair and glanced at the first man with irritation. If that was Mathias, then the first man was Adrian Folkestad.

"I gave them my rifle," Adrian said. "There was another man there when I entered, Alfred's brother."

"Alfred has a brother?" Mathias' brow furrowed. He chuckled and gave a casual shrug. "Anyway, how's Freyr?"

"He appears to be well." Adrian said tensely.

"Good. Hey, Berwald told me Ivan's willing to share his alcohol. Why don't we get something to drink?"

A silence ensued. Mathias stopped pacing and surveyed Adrian in a friendly, sympathetic manner. He drew breath to speak, but Adrian cut him off.

"Ivan is going to kill them soon. I can feel it—he's a twisted man, a true danger to all." Adrian said mutinously.

"Agreed." Mathias said with a sigh. "Let's get back—Ivan will think we're plotting if we don't report to him soon. Not that we aren't planning, ha."

"Ah, right…" Adrian said softly, letting his final word evanesce in the heavy air. With that, he and Mathias fell into step and made a swift, dignified promenade out of the building, glass crunching beneath their boots. When their footsteps became part of the pressing silence, Antonio spoke.

"So…I take it they're on our side."

"Not necessarily," Sven harrumphed, rising to full height. He grabbed his gun and began to search for a staircase leading to the tunnels below. Sven passed his hands along every wall and stepped firmly on the tile, listening hard for the slightest click or crack as the tile was dislodged to reveal a trapdoor of some sort. He looked inside all rooms and found nothing, and nightfall plunged them into darkness.

"There's nothing here," Sven growled. "Damn it."

"Actually…" Antonio cracked a smile. He was standing proudly by a narrow door that had been hidden behind a leaning bookcase. "I found it."

"How?"

"I got distracted and thought about movies, which brought me to thinking about obvious locations that would be too obvious to look in which would therefore make them unobvious." Antonio replied. He laughed nervously—Sven was staring at him blankly.

Sven shoved him aside and kicked the door down, peering into the black stairwell with trepidation. He nodded at Antonio, and they descended into the depths of Ivan's headquarters.

;;;;;

Elizaveta's presence in the house had relieved them, but only slightly. On Ivan and Alfred's end, there was silence. No bombings, no acts of terrorism in a week. The silence only made tensions bristle and flare with such fury that sleep was repelled. Not one eye of the inhabitants of Roderich's house was free of the purple arc underneath. Not one countenance was florid and flushed, but cadaverously white. Gilbert's had taken on an ashen color, and he spent the better part of his days in bed, groggy and coughing. Vash, a sentinel in the window, guarded the house throughout dark, eerie nights. They were cold and much too quiet for a city like Salzburg. That evening, Vash was alone in the house while the others ran errands. Vash leaped up from an armchair at hearing the doorbell ring, and armed his rifle. He crept to the door and opened it a crack. His jade green eye winced and watered at the evening sun, but before him stood a familiar trio.

"Ah, Vash, is Roderich not home?" Sadik greeted with a forced smile.

Vash was a loss for words. His eyes fell upon Lovino Vargas, standing between Heracles Karpusi and Sadik Adnan.

"He and the others are out right now." Vash said quietly. He glanced at the floor and stepped aside. He didn't want to see the looks on the others' faces and cut off any questions they could ask by changing the subject to a more important, overbearing matter. "Why are you here?"

"A pit stop," Sadik chuckled and ran a hand through his voluminous black hair.

Vash gazed at him coolly and nodded. He led them to the living room and sat down in an armchair that smelled too much like Roderich, crossing his legs and grimacing at the scent.

"That's the same reason everyone is here." Vash muttered. "Not that we're any safer here than anywhere else."

"False sense of security." Heracles scoffed, frowning in disgust.

"When Roderich and the others return, we'll start devising a plan." Vash murmured. His head was pounding with stress. He had designed a plan, but felt it was too primitive. And he wasn't going to present it to these people. They were fellow comrades, yet one not needed be a comrade to remain a stranger. He glanced at them. Each of them looked harried—Lovino's frown was slipping and his consciousness was being carried downstream. He propped an arm on the bolster and held his chin in hand. Vash wanted to do the same, but he had to stay awake until the others returned.

"Vash, how's your sister?" Sadik asked affably. He'd not seen Liese in many years.

"Liese is well." Vash replied, note of uncertainty hanging in the air.

"You sound unsure about that." Sadik drawled. His gaze snapped from the dense green foliage that surrounded Roderich's house to Vash, who was fidgeting in the armchair, absentmindedly scratching a spot on the chair.

"I am," Vash replied with a nod. "Liese, Ludwig, Elizaveta, Roderich, Feliciano, and Gilbert left three hours ago. I've heard nothing from them since then."

"Hm. It's dangerous to do that. Ivan and Alfred are on the move."

"You didn't hear?" Lovino scoffed, folding his arms.

"About what?" Vash asked sharply.

"Venice, Granada, and Gdansk were all bombed brutally as of this morning—" Sadik stopped suddenly. He held up a hand to silence Vash and Arthur, who had drawn breath to speak. Slowly, carefully, Sadik pulled the rifle off his back. He dropped his voice to a whisper and said very calmly, "Don't move. There's someone in the window."

* * *

Let's see what happens. I'll start revealing tidbits of the "why" here and there. Thanks for reading, and please review.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

"He's armed," Sadik whispered. His eyes were bright in the golden gloaming light. There was a sly smile pulling his lips. "So get down. Vash I will take care of this."

Heracles and Lovino slid off of the couches and rested strategically on the floor, tense and ready to leap up at the pressing second. The sharp, high pitched sound of shattering glass in conjunction with a series of thunderous gunshots sounded. Torrents of glass rained upon Roderich's living room, shards cut and scratched Lovino and Heracles. Over the tinny bell chimes from the falling glass there was the sound of struggle.

"Ow, ow, ow…!" a voice moaned through desperate gasps. It was not Vash, it was not Sadik, though Sadik could be heard mumbling something incredulously. Heracles propped himself up on his elbows and surveyed his shimmering surroundings, listening for more, awaiting gunshots. Deeming his surroundings relatively safe, he rose to full height and peered over the window sill. On the ground before him, Vash was pinning a very young man down with his knees.

"Ivan's going to find out about this!" he screeched, flailing his arms around. Dark blood was soaking the grass, and Heracles took note of the round black hole in the gray overcoat that Peter Kirkland wore. Inky blood was spreading round the bullet hole in his upper chest. It was Sadik that fired, for the shot had not hit the heart, head, or neck, Vash's favorite and most effective places to fire.

Peter Kirkland was leaner, taller. His eyebrows had thickened and darkened significantly as well, and he was beginning to look very much like his older brother.

"Bastards, that's what you all are," he spat, eyes wild.

"Calm down," Vash said sharply. He applied pressure to the wound frantically, hands trembling. He had just shot a kid.

"Where's your brother?" Sadik demanded.

"That faggot, Arthur?" Peter snorted. His face was contorted with physical agony, his teeth were gritted and he squirmed uncontrollably under the weight of Vash. "Dead, I hope! Stupid Ivan didn't think Sealand was worth attacking, that bastard. Nobody recognizes me, so I'm seeking my revenge!" Peter maniacal laugh was chilling. "And I certainly will," Peter's blue eyes became glacial; his eyebrows cocked in a frown. "Ivan's coming to kill you all, just wait. You're going to die like all the others."

"I'm sorry, Peter, but this has to be done." Vash planted a foot on Peter's abdomen and stood up, pointing the rifle's sleek barrel at Peter's sweating forehead.

"I don't care if you shoot me," Peter panted. He stopped squirming.

Sadik and Heracles watched Vash expectantly. Was he really going to shoot a boy? Vash closed his eyes. His index finger gave an uncertain twitch upon the trigger and Vash let out an uncertain breath. There nothing more he could to Peter, who was bound to die with the wound in his chest. He was with Ivan, after all. Vash's mind was jammed with concerns and second thoughts, but there was no time for that. If what he said was true, then something had to be done. Vash pulled the trigger. Peter's body leaped under him, and Vash removed his boot from Peter's body.

"You just killed a kid." Sadik said, wide eyed.

"He was going to die, anyway," Vash murmured, clambering back into the house. He impatiently brushed blond hair out of his eyes and turned to gaze somberly at Sadik and Heracles. "We have to get out. Right now."

"I think he was bluffing," Heracles said flatly. "About Ivan coming, that is."

The front door opened, and a flurry of frenzied footsteps followed. They were home.

"I heard gunshots," Elizaveta said, struggling to keep up with Roderich, who led the party. She paused to survey the glass crystals soaking the furniture, the floor, the curtains. "What happened?"

Sadik gave an impassive, mechanical explanation to the group.

Liese approached Vash with wide eyes and encircled his waist in her arms, resting her head against his chest. Vash inhaled, he loved her sweet scent and the soft blond hair she wore like his. She was warm and comforting, and for the brief moment that her arms were around him Vash's troubled conscience seemed to evaporate and take form as tears that were building in his eyes.

"Did you shoot?" she whispered.

"Yes," he responded under his breath. It was all he could manage.

"Fratello!" Feliciano exclaimed, running over him to his dear older brother. "I thought you were dead."

"I'm not," Lovino muttered. He tried to wriggle out of his younger brother's tearful embrace, but gave up and turned his attention to Ludwig, Roderich, and Sadik, who were scheming.

"Basically," Gilbert spoke up and stifled a cough, "We have two options: stick around, or get out."

"Obviously," Roderich said testily. "But the problem is that there's not really a way to escape in time, unless we hijack a plane and leave."

"That might actually work," Sadik said thoughtfully. "I know how to fly a commercial jet."

"And seriously, it can't be that different from flying a fighter jet, so Luddy and I can help out." Gilbert added.

"It's not going to work," Roderich sighed, waving a hand.

;;;;;

"It's been three days," Francis said hoarsely, glancing at Arthur. "What do you think?"

"Dead." Arthur said through gritted teeth.

Francis chuckled dryly and shrugged his aching shoulders. He glanced at Arthur, whose hands were trembling as they always were. Temperatures had dipped below freezing and snow had begun to fall from billowing gray skies.

"Hey, Arthur?"

"What do you want?" Arthur demanded petulantly.

"I think we're going to die here." Francis said solemnly. "Right here, under this bridge."

"No shit." Arthur murmured, pulling his knees close to his chest. Well, they had lost the war. It wasn't even a war to begin with; they'd lost from the start. The temperatures were plunging, finding suitable food was impossible, and they were at the mercy of their minds and metabolism. There was nothing more than bodies, dust, smashed cement and ashes in barren Moscow. Arthur and Francis would surely become part of it.

"Do you think everyone else is dead, too?" Francis' voice quivered as a picture of Feliciano clouded his eyes.

"Of course…" Arthur's voice trailed off and hung in the chilly air.

"I think you're being pessimistic." Francis chided.

"Realistic," Arthur corrected. He shoved his hands in his armpits in a futile attempt to keep warm.

"Listen, we need to get into the headquarters." Francis dropped all pretense and leaned close to Arthur, who recoiled, wary shimmer to his dull green eyes. Francis' eyes glowed like the blue sky they hadn't seen in weeks. As a small smile tugged at his cracked lips, dark blood oozed from little cuts. "There's probably food in there. I'd rather die by being shot that starvation."

Francis rose from the floor and held out an inviting hand to Arthur, gentleness smoldered in those blue eyes. Arthur was particularly attractive in angst, with that frown and the hard green eyes. Arthur averted his gaze to the floor and snubbed Francis' hand and stood up by himself. They navigated through brick and dust and the glimmering landscape of glass inside the first building they entered. Arthur's footsteps over the glass reminded him of snapping bones. He placed a finger against a skeletal wall and leaned his forehead against it. There was a heartbeat behind that wall, or was it the throb of his freezing fingertips? He breathed in deeply, unfazed by the acrid smell of ash. The scent was so prevalent that it was almost calming.

"Arthur, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Arthur mumbled, backing away from the wall. "Right…how the hell did Gilbert get into the base?"

"All I see is glass and burned furniture." Francis grumbled, folding his arms. "Do you think we're actually in the base right now?"

"We are in Ivan's territory…" Arthur muttered. "But there's no one here."

The toe of his boot caught on something on the floor, and he staggered forward, cursing in surprise. He looked down and leaned close. There were shards of a cracked piece of tile. Intrigued, he scraped the shards away to remove a groove beneath the tile. Arthur placed his fingertips underneath and heaved up, gasping as the floor gave way and opened up, a trapdoor. White light befell the steps leading below.

Francis nodded at him; throat too parched to speak any more, and descended the stairs in the heavy pitch darkness of the stairwell. A haunting sliver of light appeared upon touching the last step—a door was up ahead. Francis placed a hand on the door jamb and slowly turned it to left. With a satisfied click, the door opened. He peered down a long, claustrophobic hallway, oddly symmetrical. He and Arthur navigated down it quickly, heading for the double doors that so tantalized them, for it was the only exit. Arthur's brisk walk turned into a panicked run, and Francis followed. There was something about that corridor that disturbed him—in his ears he heard the screeching of nails against a chalkboard, on his skin he felt virulent goosebumps rise not from cold but anxiety. He slammed into those doors and flung them open with all his might and threw himself into the next room, fighting for a breath of air.

The next room was massive, with white vaulted ceilings and tubes of halogen lights up above. Air ducts and vents snaked around the ceiling, and in front of him were a set of metal vats with complicated tubing. A wave of fear washed over Arthur, and he was unable to draw breath, asphyxiating in his own terror.

"M-Mon Dieu…" Francis stuttered. His eyes were wide and his lips were parted, he felt cold all over again. "Ivan's making nuclear bombs."

;;;;;

"How long until we die from this?" Feliks sighed dramatically as he checked the gauges one of the cylindrical containers. Feliks tucked a few strands of hair behind his ears impatiently and added, "I'm kind of ready for that, you know?"

Tino gave a noncommittal hum as a response. He rubbed his eyes. Tino had begun to feel unlike himself—he was stricken with malaise and had a headache, and he had a strong suspicion it was because of the work they were doing, and of course, the lack of protection. Neither wore gloves or masks as they roamed the volatile labyrinth of tubes and pipes.

"I suppose we'll find out eventually," Tino said. "What's the pressure on that one?"

"Who cares?" Feliks scoffed. He landed a decisive kick to the metal container.

"Be careful!" Tino hissed.

"Seriously, what was Ivan thinking, telling us to do this dirty work?" Feliks seethed, eyes blazing. "Does he really think we're going to do it?"

"Shut up," Tino said mutinously, examining the gauges. "He'll hear and break your other arm. Or remove it, depending on how he feels."

"They can break my bones and unravel my intestines," Feliks was satisfied by Tino's cringe. "But I won't listen to them."

"Hm. By the way, Katyusha seems to have a thing for you."

"Eh, whatever." Feliks waved off his remark. "Want to get some food with me?"

"No, Feliks." Tino sighed. "This has to be done first."

"Wait, Tino, look!" Feliks grabbed the sleeve of Tino's coat and pointed discreetly. His face had lit up. Some distance away, there were two men—Francis and Arthur, rooted at the double doors, gaping in awe. Feliks bounded over to them, dragging Tino along.

"What are you two doing here?" he asked eagerly, smiling uncertainly to hide his enthusiasm.

"Oh, Feliks!" Francis exclaimed. "You're alive. And Tino, I'm glad to see you too are well."

"Somewhat," Tino chuckled. "Listen—Ivan's planning on bombing some more, as you can see." He gestured to the factory behind him. "I don't know how you got here or why you're here, but it's dangerous. I heard something about two other guys that got in—"

"Sven and Antonio," Arthur said with a jerky nod. "Have you seen them?"

"No. Feliks and I have to go, but I leave you with this: watch out for Natalia. Katyusha Braginskaya, Berwald, Adrian, and Mathias are your friends." Tino said solemnly.

"And if Eduard von Bock, the prison guard, catches you, you're screwed." Feliks added with a nod. "He's a tattletale. There are a few others soldiers around, so avoid them, too. And if you do run into them, shoot them. Good thing you're armed."

"Do you have any plans?" Tino asked eagerly. His eyes flickered to the door behind Arthur and Francis.

"No," Francis confessed. "We were cold and wanted food."

"Oh…well…" Tino looked crestfallen. "I'm sorry, but we have to go right now. Good luck."

"One more thing!" Feliks said. He dropped his voice to a whisper and said, "Kill the electricity. That'll really be fun for Ivan and Alfred."

The two rushed off without another look back, leaving Arthur and Francis alone in the room.

"Come on, let's get out of here." Francis said softly. He touched Arthur's shoulder and began to walk among the imposing pipes and cylinders until they reached another door that led to yet another corridor.

"Francis," Arthur's tone was heavy and he refused to make eye contact with Francis. He seemed to be embarrassed. "If I knew that we'd be in this much danger, I would not have even left London."

"Oh, Arthur, relax." Francis said. "Everything will be fine."

Arthur shook his head, unconvinced, and ran those famous shaking hands through his filthy blonde hair. He sighed and leaned against the wall.

"We can't turn back, Arthur." Francis pointed out. "Let's see if we can find Antonio and Sven."

;;;;;

In the night, the snow was a pale and powdery blue blanket that draped the ruins of Moscow. Snowflakes swirled and drifted in the air, a fine replacement for the acrid cinders.

"Hey," Sadik said solemnly. He shivered in the frigid air and watched his breath evanesce in the still night air. "It's likely we may not ever return home. Is everyone aware of that?"

He was met with somber, tired nods. Sadik offered a comforting, forced smile and beckoned them over with a short wave of his hand.

"Wait—" Elizaveta cut him off firmly and added, "Before we go in, there should be two people staying in the plane, just in case. Gilbert and I will stay, because he's ill and I'm useless, too," Elizaveta's gaze softened when she met her husband's tense look. He looked strapping with a rifle across his chest, standing straight with a stony, resolute look to his bright eyes. He nodded at very slowly.

"Good thinking," Ludwig said, patting Gilbert's back.

"T-The building I went in is that one," Gilbert pointed a trembling finger to the blockish ruins of the closes building to the Kremlin's main entrance. "The trapdoor will be under some cracked tile in the foyer."

"Sounds good. Everyone ready?" Sadik said. "So…I guess this is goodbye."

"Elizaveta, be safe." Roderich marched over to Elizaveta and bestowed a stiff embrace and a swift kiss upon her before sharply turning on his heel and stalking toward the Kremlin. Ludwig muttered something to Gilbert, to which Gilbert nodded absentmindedly.

"We'll see you soon." Feliciano added with a cheerful wink.

Elizaveta and Gilbert clambered back into the cozy airplane and watched the group disappear in the distance as the snowfall thickened. Elizaveta turned to Gilbert, who was reclining along seats. She brushed his forehead with the back of her hand. A fever blazed beneath his ashen skin. Elizaveta suspected pneumonia. That was his fourth round that winter.

"Liz." Gilbert said weakly. "Shit's gonna hit the fan."

"I know that." She snapped.

"What are you going to do if Roderich gets killed?" Gilbert's chuckle turned into a coughing fit.

"Not think about it," Elizaveta replied loftily. "It's out my control."

;;;;;

_Ivan sat atop a craggy piece of concrete, sipping vodka and watching, with a placid, romantic gleam to his eyes, as Moscow blazed before him. Wild, ambitious flames reaching into the sky, vague shouting and screaming, the sizzling, the explosions that shook the earth. He placed a gloved hand on the concrete—it was humanly warm. A laugh caught in his throat— the world was his, finally. He had his base underground, loyal servants. And the rest would bend and fall to his demands. _

_ "Ivan," a warm whisper tantalized his ears, a thin arm was slid around his waist. _

_ "Natalia, hello," he greeted. Ivan leaned his face toward Natalia, awaiting a kiss on the cheek that was swiftly delivered. _

_ "How beautiful Moscow is." Natalia sighed. Sounds of suffering drowned Katyusha's earnest and uncontrollable sobs from a few feet away. She sat with her head on her knees, shivering under the coat draped round her shaking shoulders. Bitter tears soaked her chest—she had been blindly stalemated, and she would ever escape. Her hands were empty; they carried not a grain of authority and respect that she should've exercised as the eldest sibling. How many millions would be killed in the next days? Katyusha choked on the mordant air that had already made her throat raw, and cried harder, for she was the most fortunate of the millions that diminished to silvery ashes before her. Her throat was raw, but others' whole bodies were raw, as well as their fear. Melancholic notes of sympathy vibrated within her. _

_ "I agree," Ivan said with a sure nod. "Natalia, my dear, what did you do with Alfred?"_

_ "Alfred has been drugged and dealt with." Reflected embers glistened on Natalia's long scroll of platinum blonde hair with the glow of the fire on wet lips._

_ "I can't wait," A sickening smile split Ivan's agreeable countenance, "to see the look on his face when I tell him his land has been reduced to cinders. That possessive bastard needs a lesson in discipline. I can't wait to make him mine, and I can't wait to burn the rest of the world."_

_ Why? What good will that do? _

_ "I will be with you forever and always," Natalia's voice swelled with pride._

_It was not long after that they encountered a groggy Alfred, on the floor of Ivan's office. Ivan watched with glee as Alfred slowly stood up, mildly disoriented. _

_ "Was I drunk?" Alfred inquired, scratching his head. He squinted. "And where am I?"_

_ "My office, Alfred." Ivan replied. "My other office."_

_Ivan reached into his overcoat and withdrew a few photographs that he handed to Alfred. The photographs were of Alfred's most populous, famous cities—ashes now. _

_ "Do any of those look familiar?" Ivan questioned cloyingly. His smile distended at seeing Alfred's hands quiver. He loved the horrified expression on Alfred's face, the pallor on his cheeks, the trembling of his lips and the tears springing to his eyes. _

_ "No, that's not NYC." He said. Alfred's eyes strayed from the decimated Statue of Liberty in the first picture. "These are not San Fran, Phoenix, H-Town, LA, or Philly, or even the Windy City. This isn't real." _

_ "No?" Ivan said. "Let me show you, Moscow, then." _

_And Alfred watched the blazes leave behind royal, ancient ruins of an old city. He was on his knees, his countenance was pale as the crisp white ashes that flitted about in the thick air. His eyes, a gloriously blue shade that matched the sky, were clouded with unshed tears and repressed despair._

_ "How could you do this?" Alfred asked hoarsely. "How could you kill not only your citizens but everyone else's too?" _

_ "It's beautiful." Ivan replied simply, evading the prying nature of Alfred's question. "You do not agree?"_

_Alfred drew breath to speak and nearly asphyxiated on the sea of cinders that stirred around him, so he simply shook his head and gave a small gasp to stifle and stop any sobs that threatened to break from him._

_ "N-Not at all." Alfred said under his breath. Sweat slid down his face and mingled with those unstoppable tears. "I'll send my army to kill you for doing this." _

_ "Alfred," Ivan said in a an almost sing song tone, approaching Alfred carefully. "I already killed off your country—there's no army left, you see. So what are you going to do?" _

_ Alfred averted his gaze. He frowned incredulously and further blanched when he realized he too, was trapped and had no choice. _

_ "I'll shoot you if you don't help me," Ivan's threat had little effect on Alfred. He decided to glibly add another little bonus. "But you'll have your wish of having all the most powerful weapons if you join me." _

_ "All right, fine." Alfred said with a shrug. He wiped his eyes and hid a smile. It'd be easy as finding a gun in the base and shooting Ivan and his cronies up. He would rise as the hero, the way he always did. _

;;;;;

"All right. Confess, you filthy bastards." Natalia strode into the cell, hands behind her back, eyes half closed and baleful. Her eyes, a dark, guarded shade of blue roved the cell and the grimy faces of the pitiful prisoners. Tino surreptitiously pressed his back against the wall to hide the rifle Adrian had given then. It was just him, Feliks, Toris, Freyr, Kiku, and Yong Soo.

"What did we do?" Yong Soo asked with a coy blink of his eyes.

"You know what you did. You got a gun from somewhere." Natalia growled. She was so beautiful but so vile.

"Miss, there is nothing here. You confiscated all of our weapons." Tino said reasonably.

"If you don't tell me where the rifle that Adrian fucking Folkestad gave you," Natalia withdrew a long, machete that winked furiously in the dim light from behind her back, and in her left hand was a small but potent handgun. "I will kill all of you. And even if you don't tell me, I'll kill you for lying."

"I'd like to see you try," Feliks said under his breath. He smirked and brushed some dust off of his pant

"How did you find out about that?" Tino demanded. His voice shook with anger.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Natalia scoffed. "But don't worry. Adrian is being dealt with by Ivan and Alfred themselves."

Tino watched as Freyr blanched to the color of the wall he sat against.

"Then again, a imbecile like you probably has no idea how to even hold a rifle." Natalia laughed.

And a gunshot sounded in the small room.

Feliks gasped sharply when he saw splashes of dark blood appear on his pants, and he waited to lose consciousness or feel wild pain on some part of his body. It never came, and he realized the blood was not his when he looked up from his lap to see a body that writhed in pain, screaming, long golden hair turning black in the thick blood that issued from a hole in her chest and another in her neck. Not five seconds passed before Natalia Braginskaya became limp.

"W-What…" Feliks began, lifting his eyes to Tino, who was breathing heavily, flames burning in his eyes. He rested the rifle Adrian Folkestad had given on his shoulder and glared at Natalia's body with such uncharacteristic fury.

"Serves her right," he spat, "For threatening us like that."

He stooped to the floor and tucked her famous knife and pistol into his pocket. The door to the cell was open and Eduard was nowhere to be seen. The doorway shone with opportunity.

"Let's get out right now," Tino said urgently. "It's now or never. Katyusha slipped me the map of this place. There's a stairwell just down the hall. Up four flights—and we're out of here. So, who is coming with me?"

Feliks leapt to his feet and pulled Toris off the floor without even letting the poor man make sense of the situation. Toris' wide eyes were bound to the sight of his lover sleeping in a pool of her own blood, but they slowly strayed to Feliks, who was smiling radiantly so that his pallor seemed to dissipate. Feliks coaxed a reluctant Kiku and a dazes Yong Soo off of the floor and Freyr was already out the door. The rest of the prisoners were elsewhere—dead or out laboring for Ivan. But Tino had other plans.

"Let's go," Tino said. "Run, if you can."

Tino, in possession of the weapon, stood in front as he sprinted down the hall and up the stairs, glancing over his shoulder to see all of his comrades, tense, following him diligently. When he ran into a narrow, flimsy door, he knew he was free. Bashing it to the floor, he needed no map to figure out where he was. A snowy expanse lay before him, and an overjoyed laugh escaped him as he dashed across the fluffy snow. His eyes watered, for it had been so long since he'd been outside.

"Come on, the further we get from the base the safer we are." Tino said enthusiastically. He looked over his shoulder at his ragtag comrades, thin and wan and freezing, ankle deep in the snow. They continued lumbering through the blinding snow until Tino made out a distinct figure up ahead. It was small airplane stopped on a desolate Russian highway. Intrigued, Tino approached the plane and tapped on the door with the butt of his rifle. He took a step back and waited, glancing anxiously at his fellow prisoners. The door opened, and there stood Elizaveta. Her face was blank with surprise, her body trembled with repressed emotion. The people that stood before her she had assumed dead.

"You're alive," she said with a shaky laugh. Elizaveta grinned at Feliks, an old friend of hers, and he returned the gesture.

"Good to see you, Elizaveta." Tino said cheerfully. He clambered into the airplane and pulled everyone else into the aircraft. Toris was relieved to see amassed food, blankets, and weapons, and he sank into a seat and leaned his head against the window.

"I'm going back to find everyone else," Tino said with a firm nod.

"So am I," Feliks said determinedly.

"Ah, shit. I wish I could join you." Elizaveta said. She looked down at the bandages covering hers arms and legs. Elizaveta pointed to the back of the plane, where the weapons were stored. "Well, go get some guns, ammo, and everything else."

"It's not just you here, is it?" Freyr asked, surveying Elizaveta coolly.

"No. Gilbert is here with me. Roderich, Ludwig, Vash, Liese, Feliciano, Lovino, Heracles, and Sadik are in the base right now." she said. "So—tell me. What is going on in there?"

"Ivan has a bomb factory underground. We've been exposed to nuclear radiation. Feliks has been tortured, Xiang has been vivisected. I was almost beheaded by Natalia," Tino winced at the memory. He had a shallow cut on his neck from the time Natalia was in a violent frenzy. "Ivan also likes to starve us."

"Don't forget the time he tried to inject me with various chemicals." Freyr muttered, rolling up the sleeve of his jacket. The inside of his forearm was dotted with needle sticks.

"And various other things." Toris said jadedly. "Elizaveta, it's very dangerous in the base. Ivan has soldiers left and right. The only allies there are Mathias, Adrian, Berwald, and Katyusha. And Adrian is probably dead, seeing that Natalia found out about him giving us the rifle. But Tino did kill her."

"If things get bad, I'm flying out with the survivors." Elizaveta explained solemnly. She turned to Feliks and Tino, armed with two rifles each and weighed down with ammo and other supplies. Both of them had the excited twinkle in their eyes that betrayed an adrenaline rush. Before she had a chance to say goodbye, the two had already leapt out of the jet and were sprinting back to the Kremlin with an invincible air around them.

* * *

Meh. Shitty chapter is shitty. Sorry for that.

But I'll deal with that after my homecoming dance...lol.

So leave me a review.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

Four days.

Adrian Folkestad crossed his legs and stared at the woman standing over in a calculating, knowing fashion. He sat, poised, on a deep red wedge of stone, part of the Kremlin. A notebook was propped open on his knee, and his right hand absentmindedly tapped the pen he held against the paper, eliciting a sharp _smack_ with each curl of his index finger. His face was drained of color, expressionless, almost ghost like. Throughout their meeting he spoke in a monotone, and he did not move, twitch, or fidget under the critical demanding gazes that Elizaveta had fired at him, especially since the long gray coat remained buttoned. But Adrian gazed back evenly.

"How many dead so far?" Adrian Folkestad asked.

"Four." Elizaveta answered.

"Their names?" Adrian prompted.

"Raivis Galante, Eduard von Bock, Natalia Braginskaya and Im Yong Soo." Elizaveta replied stonily. "Died of illness, suicide, shooting, and stab wounds, respectively."

Adrian wrote their names down in his nondescript penmanship.

It had been four days since he hurried out of the base at Berwald's command. He remembered the glistening tears in Mathias' bright blue eyes that morning, the morning Adrian explained his plan to them. He had been on duty that fateful morning, the day he heard a plane land somewhere nearby. In its descent he noticed that it was an Austrian aircraft, meaning it had to have flown from Salzburg, the only large Austrian city that had yet to be bombed as of five days ago, the very day that plane landed. The twentieth of March. Adrian had given the prisoners his weapon so that they could protect themselves from Natalia, whose cutthroat, violent manner had peaked, especially when Adrian's lie about the prisoners' disobedience reached her. She was now dead. The prisoners had a map from Katyusha that she had given them on the first day, a weapon, and an open door—they had an escape. But Berwald, Adrian, and Mathias did not. Adrian managed to get three more prisoners out and make a run for his own life while Mathias was left to sabotage the base.

Adrian hadn't seen Mathias or Berwald since.

And he stayed with Elizaveta, who was alone above ground in freezing temperatures with four hungry, weary people and man whose breathing was scant.

;;;;;

Feliks made a run for it, down the stairs, into deeper darkness. Feliks smelled blood, gasoline, and metal. The combination brought on a wave of nausea that only heightened as he stepped over rubble and bodies. The cold air was stifling and stagnant. Feliks leaned against the wall and slid down into a crouching position. Feliks waited in deathly silence, listening carefully for any footsteps. Where was Tino? Tino had been with him ten minutes ago, but the two were separated when part of the base collapsed. Were the others alive? He did not know. Feliks shuddered as the sensation of paranoia hit him. He felt like he was being watched, but in the darkness, he saw nothing.

"Found you," a saccharine little voice said out of the pitch.

Feliks gasped and reflexively sprang up to his full height. A bright light hit him in the face, temporarily blinding him. He cracked an eye open and studied his surroundings. Ivan was standing in front of him, lit eerily by the flashlight he held. Another shudder racked Feliks, this time because he was face to face with an inhuman entity. Ivan towered over Feliks, and in that coat he looked like a bear. Behind him there was a smaller person, but the light wasn't enough for Feliks to make out who it was.

"Feliks, you look so different." Ivan said with a soft laugh.

"Whatever." Feliks said, leaning harder against the wall to conceal the rifle he had behind his back.

Ivan's smirk widened and withdrew a pistol from his jacket. With a resounding click, it was loaded.

"You're clever, Feliks, but not enough to save yourself." The same maddening tone Feliks had heard for centuries.

"Whatever," Feliks said under his breath. For the first time in centuries, fear was pitting itself in Feliks' empty stomach.

The click of a rifled being armed sounded. Feliks turned and saw the barrel of a rifle aimed point blank at his chest. And there was Alfred, harried eyes still on Ivan, who took the opportunity of a distracted Feliks to jam pistol savagely against Feliks' head. Feliks took a breath in response to the pain. The metal was warm, too warm—blood that was not his own seeped from the tip of the pistol and rivulets of blood trailed down Feliks' pale, anxious face. He did not waver—these intimidation tactics were mundanely typical. He dabbed a hand to his cheek and blood shimmered on his gloves.

"This is the blood of one of your comrades, Feliks." Ivan breathed into his ear. "I believe Tino was his name."

Feliks held his breath. He was reliving that moment some seventy years ago.

"And yours will join the many that will perish." He extended a finger and rubbed some blood off of Feliks' face, only to dab the bit of blood on lips. He smiled at the taste of metal and pressed the pistol harder into Feliks' temple, nearly slamming Feliks' head against the dusty wall. Feliks resisted, keeping his head still. At once, his mind became clear. All anxiety flowed out of him with the heavy sigh he let go.

"Fine, then." Feliks said with a shrug. He didn't have much of a choice—die or surrender. Poland was already lost to Ivan, and joining the dead of Poland would be an honor "I can't wait until you both get smashed by everyone else."

"Hm, I find that highly unlikely." Ivan said in a sing song voice. Feliks had insulted him. There was something about the way Ivan's eyes took on a sinister glow, and the smile that curved up to the right. "But go ahead and dream that in death, Feliks—in fact, Alfred, why don't you kill Feliks?"

With that, Ivan passed the flashlight to Alfred like a baton and disappeared into the darkness. Feliks rubbed his temple, where the pistol had been, and lowered evenly at Alfred, who maintained a steady aim at Feliks' chest.

"Any last words?" Alfred asked perfunctorily. Feliks noticed there was a bit of blood on his coat.

Feliks held his silence and shook his head. But then, he heard ragged footsteps. Alfred lowered the rifle and pointed the flashlight down the corridor, where Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoi stood.

At seeing Alfred, Arthur went rigid. Feliks took this as an opportunity to arm the rifle and point it at Alfred's back, but unlike Alfred, he'd not be so hasty. Feliks wanted to see if Arthur, a long time friend and father figure of Alfred, was going to say anything.

;;;;;

And there was Alfred. Just the same as Arthur remembered him. Blond and well-built, but his eyes did not shine and he did not smile. Without a single thought, brash as always, he lifted the rifle to Arthur, who squared his shoulders and aimed back. Alfred was outnumbered, and the realization let loose a stream of confidence in Arthur's blood.

"I thought we killed you," Alfred said under his breath.

"I can't let you live this down," Arthur said hoarsely. "Why did you do this, Alfred?"

London, blazing, came to mind, as well as Paris burning in a hellish tempest of flames. The ashes that clogged his lungs and common sense.

"Let me ask you something, Arthur—" Alfred said coldly. "Do you like having your power usurped, and do you like seeing your people die?"

"Don't ask me stupid shit," Arthur returned savagely, wild eyed. "What do you think?"

"You wouldn't understand, Arthur." Alfred sighed.

"Just shoot him already," Francis said out of the corner of his mouth. "You have to, Arthur."

But Arthur couldn't. His hands were, for once, steady, but his finger had frozen on the trigger. But why? Arthur no longer saw Alfred as his friend or even as younger brother or son, but as a foreigner, an enemy. And yet, Arthur couldn't bring himself to hate him because he didn't know who Alfred was anymore. Deception threw his thoughts into tumult: from the start Alfred had shown remarkable willpower, optimism, and desire for success and fame, but this man stood before him, pale and somber. Alfred at this point meant nothing to him, so Arthur shut his eyes and flexed his index finger, firing the rifle. Almost as soon as the shot was fired, a thud followed, and Alfred lay amongst rubble, eyes wide open but unseeing, lips ajar but silent, as if he had been caught by the lens of a camera. But he was dead. Dark blood bloomed on his gray overcoat. The flashlight was aimed at the wall. Feliks, the only one capable of moving, stooped to pick the flashlight up from the floor and pointed it at Arthur and Francis. Francis was unmoving, but his gaze strayed from Alfred to Arthur, who wept silently.

"Let's go." Feliks said gently.

"Where?" Arthur's tone and voice were even, flat, dead. He winced at the sting as tears touched a long red laceration, the work of a knife, on Arthur's ashen cheek.

"Out of here." Feliks responded solemnly. He offered Arthur and Francis a wavering smile. Feliks was young, be he already looked so old. Those expressive green eyes were awash with sorrow and they stared into the past. The white light from shed by the flashlight only coaxed the dark circles under his eyes out of hiding. It was as if Feliks had drawn arcs under his eyes with a finger dipped in ash. He was barely twenty years old.

And so was Alfred.

After following Feliks for an hour, Arthur and Francis found themselves outside. A whetted wind whipped them hard. Feliks trudged along with Francis and Arthur on his heels. They were spent and exhausted, so they rendezvoused with Elizaveta and Adrian, who stood nearby.

"Alfred is dead," Arthur said grimly. Elizaveta pressed for details but he did not yield to her pleads. And as soon as they clambered into the temporary haven that the aircraft was, Arthur closed his eyes and fell into a fitful, desolate slumber.

;;;;;

Antonio touched the stiff, striped scarf that belonged to Sven, wrapped around a healing neck wound. He was about to accept defeat. He, Sven, and Mathias had met in up the boiler room they destroyed four days ago and wandered around the base like vagabonds, shooting any soldier that leapt from shadows and taking an informal casualty count. Sven only opened his mouth to utter some bit of dark, twisted humor, and Antonio was horrified at himself for chuckling. Mathias' energy had diminished with the passing days, and he had taken a cadaverous like appearance.

"So, what do you say, Mathias?" Antonio said hoarsely. "Is every lackey dead yet?"

"I think so. More or less." Mathias said wearily. "I mean, how many people have we shot?"

"Fifty seven," Sven replied. He was the designated scorekeeper. "Fifty seven bastards put in their place." Sven's voice quivered with rare excitement. He let the rare, full-fledged grin make its debut on his tense face.

"So, Sven…" Antonio trailed off, though not out of hesitation. In the dim light, his eyes twinkled. "Why are we here, anyway?"

Sven scowled askance and folded his arms, indicating Antonio to continue.

"Well…you and I don't have any loved ones as prisoners, you know? How are we even alive?" Antonio forced a laugh after he posed the question, but he felt he was right. They had no real incentive to be well underground in the enemy's base, outnumbered, in constant peril. It seemed as if they were there for adventure.

"Actually, Sven, I forgot to tell you, but your sister Anna is here." Mathias said casually. Sven stopped walking and gave Mathias a baleful lower.

"Don't lie to me, Mathias." Sven sounded oddly spooked. "Don't even try."

"Mathias, please don't." Antonio said quietly. "Anna was a dear friend of mine. I watched her die."

"No, she was definitely here." Mathias said with a short laugh. "I promise. I'm pretty sure she's safe. Adrian probably got her out—"

Mathias didn't even get to finish his sentence, for Sven brusquely shoved the poor man into the yellowed cinder block.

"That's what you get for not telling me earlier." Sven snapped. He ran a hand though his impossibly messy hair, took a deep breath, and looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, disbelieving.

"I guess I deserve it." Mathias mumbled. "So, guys, what do you want to do? Get out or stick around and walk in circles?"

"The smart thing is to get out," Antonio said, gesticulating wildly in his typical way to a stairwell that was located conveniently nearby.

Sven was relatively indifferent. To punctuate his lack of acknowledgement, Sven ran a finger along a rusted pipe. Rough metal left his finger tingling. Red rust rimmed many of the tubes and pipes that snaked about, and water damage was present on the floor and ceiling.

"I think we should get out." Mathias said.

"But not without sabotage." Sven said. He paused and groped for something in his pocket. A tongue of fire appeared in the cold air. The ghostly glow of an orange flame illuminated Sven's face eerily—dark shadows appeared under his eyes, and his hard hazel irises reflected the flame that floated just above the lighter that he held a lighter confidently in his left hand. Sven said, "We'll set fire to this place and make it a burning hell."

"Let's do it." Antonio said with a nod.

"Sure! I like fire." Mathias' voice leapt up an octave with his characteristic excitement. "My overcoat is pretty flammable. We can set fire to that and let it burn."

Mathias shed his overcoat and threw it to the ground. Sven shrugged and stooped to the coat, holding the lighter's flame to fabric. It was then Antonio noticed his lighter carried a marijuana motif.

Golden flames crept upon the fabric and gobbled it up greedily. Mathias watched it burn for a little while.

"Hey. You guys go on up. I need to look for someone." Mathias said eagerly.

"Be careful, and good luck." Antonio said with a grin. He was far too exhausted to oppose Mathias with logic.

"I wish I had a blunt." Sven said sullenly, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs. Antonio followed. And up the stairs they plodded until Sven's head a door above them. With much swearing, Sven bashed the door open with the butt of his rifle and lithely clambered out. He stood on a sea of glass and waited for Mathias and Sven to clamber out before making his way rather carelessly across that gray expanse between no man's land and Ivan's base. Finally. The end. He was ready to return to his land, no matter how badly it had been destroyed. Home was home, and that would never change.

They spoke to Elizaveta and Adrian, acting as checkpoint briefly and returned to the aircraft, where they met up with Arthur and Francis. But Arthur was in such a deep sleep that he did not wake.

"Seems we're back together," Francis said with a thin smile. "Glad to see you two."

"Likewise," Sven said in a businesslike tone. He studied the aircraft. It was relatively old but functional, he decided. There, besides himself, he saw Arthur, Francis, Antonio, Toris, Kiku, Meimei, Yao, Xiang, Gilbert. And there she was—Anna.

She was very thin and ashen, but her golden hair retained loopy curls and waves. Anna's delicate face, with long eyelashes and expressive eyebrows was only magnified when she saw her older brother standing before her. Filthy, grimy, bloody, but alive.

"Sven," she jumped up from her place and took two unsure steps toward him. He was sizing her up with his characteristic grimace.

"You're so thin," he said under his breath. But Sven held his arms wide, awaiting his dear sister. "My God."

Anna fell into him, and grinned. Under the heavy scent of ash, blood, and dirt, she noted his familiar aroma. He was so strong, and in his arms, she felt she was closed inside an impregnable fortress—home.

"I'm happy to see you," she said to him.

"You too, Anna." He replied, giving her a final squeeze before releasing her and giving her a little push in Antonio's direction.

She was well received by Antonio, who made a teary scene about them seeing each other again, but that was only expected of him. Francis also decided to get involved, since he too had been friends with Anna for a long time. Sven simply made himself comfortable and gazed out the window, waiting for time to pass.

;;;;;

Heracles touched Sadik's rough cheeks only to feel hot blood pulsing under Sadik's rough skin. Or was that the tingling of his freezing fingers? Sadik's green eyes still shone, even in death, and Heracles closed them with trembling hands that mimicked his quivering lips, and Heracles bit down to steady them. Tears surged, waves of fury in his eyes, and he hoped the temperatures would freeze them. This was ridiculous! He refused to shed any tears for the man he hated. How many times had Heracles seen a scimitar at his neck, how many times had felt the heel of Sadik's boot digging into his chest, how many times had he tasted pain dealt by Sadik? He wasn't going to succumb to such primitive emotion. Even the slightest breach of the mind by sadness would let lose a torrent of feelings that he'd drown in, and this was not the time for that. Maybe, after this was all over…

"Liese, we're going." He said gruffly.

Gunfire sounded. There was a battle nearby. In fact, when Heracles closed his eyes, the direction of the sound came from the wasteland between the Kremlin wall's vestiges and skeletal buildings that served as antechambers to the base itself. There was only one thing to do. Heracles broke into a staggering run over the snow, and he cursed, for he wasn't accustomed to the weather. Liese tagged along gracefully.

"He's your brother, all right." Heracles said under his breath. "I see him over there."

Heracles pointed at one of the remaining guard towers of the Kremlin. Yes, there was Vash, still as a photograph, aiming with his sniper rifle. So he was alive. Liese relinquished her feelings of anxiety.

Nearby was Roderich, hiding behind a crimson concrete slab. He was missing his glasses and bore a gash that disappeared into his hairline, but on his face there was a hesitant, mischievous smile that stemmed from the adrenaline that seared through his veins. He held the rifle comfortably, and leapt up from his place, fired a few shots, and sank back down to the earth.

"Did I hit anyone?" he asked Ludwig.

"Yes," Ludwig answered distractedly. "Feliciano, are you good at throwing things? Besides tantrums and crying fits."

"Oh, you mean like a grenade?" Feliciano said brightly.

"Yes." Ludwig said eagerly. "Would you be willing to attempt to throw a grenade correctly?"

"Don't let him." Roderich said flatly.

"Of course!" Feliciano exclaimed.

"All right…" Ludwig said tentatively. "I'll let you know when you need to throw it. Understand?"

"Yes!" Feliciano chirped. He held a hand out eagerly, and Ludwig grimaced as he let go of the grenade and watched Feliciano close his fingers around it confidently.

"Ludwig!" Roderich exclaimed. "He's here. Ivan is here."

There he was: Ivan Braginski, in his overcoat, holding a rifle rather confidently and surveying his surroundings. His soldiers were dead, strewn across the battlefield, but that didn't matter. He'd fight for himself. Matthew Williams stood in his shadow, trembling harder than that last leaf on a tree in the wind.

Ludwig leapt over the wall's remains and marched to Ivan, who smiled placidly and dropped his rifle. Ivan gazed at Ludwig evenly, unwavering.

"Explain yourself, Ivan."

"The Cold War never ended." Ivan said mechanically. "And the world looks much prettier in ashes, da?"

"You're sick," Ludwig spat.

"Isn't my motive obvious?" Ivan dropped his voice to a whisper, a shadow passed over his face, which hadn't lost one bit of color even at gunpoint. "I hate all of you."

"Explain." Ludwig said. He wasn't at all surprised by Ivan's blunt proclamation. Ludwig always knew Ivan hated them, anyway. He always sat at the end of the table during meetings, shrinking into his surroundings not unlike Matthew Williams. And yet, Ivan Braginski's silence was the most fearful kind. He was present; he was listening during all the meetings, without so much as a slight falter of the smile or a discontent grimace.

"Well," Ivan's eyes hardened. "I hate everyone. You're all so…" he searched for the word, moving his hands in the air. "…ignorant. You know nothing of real torture or sadness."

"No?" Ludwig growled. "We've felt all of that and more at seeing the population our land drop."

"That's not what I mean." Ivan sighed. He rolled his eyes. "You people wander around with plenty of money and uncorrupt countries. I, on the other hand, have a worthless set of people in my land."

"Well..." Ludwig gazed at him critically. He wasn't going to get a real answer out of him. But he would get an answer out of Adrian Folkestad, who stood nearby, rifle pointed at Ivan. So Ludwig heaved a sigh, and said "Deal with it, Ivan."

Vash took aim, gazing intently through the scope. Four black lines pointed to his target, the wind held its breath. Without a second thought, he pulled the trigger, and Ivan fell to the snow, stunned expression on his face, blood leaking from his neck. It was over. The man who had burnt the earth, damned the world, was death.

Vash let out a breath and slung his rifle over his shoulder. He had dealt the final shot, and for that, he was proud. Adrenaline began to flag in his system; weariness settled.

They had…won?

No. It was not a war, and if it was, an extremely polar one. Vash began to wonder if this was Ivan's plan after all, because, in retrospect, everything was far too easy. Once the feelings of fury, dismay, and desolation passed—rather, hardened and cured—this hadn't been such a struggle. Infiltrating the base wasn't difficult. And from what Vash could tell, they had not been severely decimated. But it was still too early to tell. Vash dragged his feet through the gray snow, and his heart began to ache for the Alps hundreds of miles away, capped with ash.

Liese. Where was Liese? Vash spotted her at once, standing next to Heracles. Vash shuffled over to her smiled vaguely.

"Good to see you." he said, giving Liese a quick embrace.

"You too." she replied, eyes gleaming with tears. "Can we go home now?"

"Yes." Vash replied. He thanked Heracles for protecting her while he was gone, for Ludwig had split them up into groups before sneaking into the base. That moment that Vash left to carry out his solo work was the moment he thought he'd last see Liese. Yes, the last time he looked over his shoulder, Liese stood in the snow between Sadik and Heracles, offering a somber wave to him.

"Heracles, where's Sadik?" Vash asked.

"Dead." Heracles said dully. Heracles wanted to recover the dead from the base. It was no place for them. He waded through the snow to Adrian with Ludwig and Roderich to negotiate with Adrian while others rallied the news of their victory to the people in the jet. Adrian agreed without a note of reluctance in his voice and led them back into the base, back into those dark, haunting tunnels. He said not a word as he navigated the hallways.

"There's one," Adrian said, pointing to a body covered in dust. He touched the body with the boot of his boot and frowned slightly. This body didn't feel dead- there was a certain springiness to her. Adrian leaned close, and recognized the sleek, ash blond hair of Katyusha Braginskaya. But under layers of dust, dried blood, and burns all over her charred body, she was hardly recognizable. He shook her body, and she stirred.

"Miss Braginskaya, can you hear me?" Adrian asked in a loud, clear voice. He beckoned Roderich over. Adrian assumed that Roderich would know how to pick a woman up from the floor.

"Y-Yes..." she mumbled. Roderich stooped over her and brushed dust off of her face. She cracked her eyes open and hardly reacted when Roderich picked her up off the floor in an easy, fluid motion. She continued to mumble, asking questions, but no one obliged to her pleas. Roderich was ordered to take Katyusha back to base and remain above ground. Once Roderich's footsteps faded, Heracles voiced their thoughts.

"It's a miracle she was alive." he said hoarsely.

"Not everyone will be so lucky." Ludwig murmured as he thought of his ill brother.

The group pressed on in oppressive silence until Heracles spotted the next body. Tino Vainamoinen appeared to have been flayed by a knife. Stab wounds and gunshot wounds dotted his torso, thick, sticky blood leaked out of the old wounds, and it took all of Adrian's self control to keep his composure, even as the blood fled from his face. He touched Tino and felt human warmth. His blue eyes—almost purple— were still wide open and looked straight at them.

Heracles stepped forward and removed Tino's body. Ludwig and Adrian were left alone. It was not long after they found Lovino Vargas, and he was taken away by Ludwig. They did not check if he was alive, simply because Ludwig and Adrian were too drained to bother with such weighty matters. They had won, but seeing all these faces that they'd seen at world meetings, in pictures, during wars as allies or enemies for centuries was too harsh of a reminder that they'd never be seen again. So Adrian wandered aimlessly in the maze until something caught his eye. A sword, lying next to a a figure in an overcoat- it was certainly Berwald. But was the man Berwald? No. The figure clad in the coat was slightly smaller than Berwald, and had messier hair...

"No," Adrian breathed, turning the body over. Deadweight and rigor met Adrian's fingertips. "No," Adrian repeated. He brushed ashes from the front of Mathias' jacket, and there it was—the entrance wound of a bullet, square in the chest.

Even though Adrian hated admitting it, Mathias was his best friend, his confidant, his ally. Adrian became acutely aware of the fact he was now completely alone. And he loved being alone, yes, but this loneliness sunk his heart and cut through him with a poignant edge, because life from this point out would never be remotely close to the way it was before. As Adrian thought, he realized his observation was rather obvious. But it was the obvious, the truthful things that often hurt the most.

Adrian staggered back from Mathias, vision clouding with sparkles and dots, blurring with tears, and presenting him a flash of memories.

The Viking Ages, where Mathias was so daring, so brazen, and the adventures the two had. More wars and shared turmoil, tragedies, and right up to the last moment they had together days ago in their quarters. And Adrian hadn't even said goodbye. He didn't think this would happen, he didn't think Ivan would raze the earth, and he didn't think at all the day he donned the gray overcoat with Mathias and Berwald. Adrian ripped the coat off of him and sank to his knees next to the body of Mathias Kohler and rested a hand on Mathias' shoulder. He was so warm, so human, even the half smile on his white countenance had vigor to it. His eyes had the spark of adventure that they always had, and everything about him was living, save for his heart, in shambles from a piercing bullet.

In a burst of rampant hope, Adrian gave Mathias' body a little shake. There was no response. Not a word, sigh, or twitch. Not even in sleep Mathias was so still.

Adrian hoisted Mathias' body over his shoulder. His knees almost buckled not with Mathias' deadweight but with the reality of death. Adrian's chest was tight so that he took sporadic, fast breaths, his heart pounded in his ears and boiling tears seared down his cheeks as he trudged up the stairs, illuminated by the pale light from outside. Adrian emerged from the skeletal building and kept his head down. Then, a heavy hand was placed on his shoulder. Sullenly, Adrian looked up—there was Berwald, in a similar state of sorrow. His glasses dissimulated the red rims that encircled his bright teal eyes and the tear tracks on his cheeks, clear against grime. His countenance was a map of grief, with winding, intertwining roads of tear stains.

Between Berwald's gloved fingers was the Nordic cross that Finland always wore on the neck of his uniform. He twisted the silver cross in his fingers, rubbing it and pressing it fervently, anxiously, but careful not to rub off a dark bloodstain on the metal. Norway brought his free hand up to his hair, and was relieved to feel his barrette present among the rest of his soft, wavy hair. He wondered if Mathias had his pin.

"L't me h'lp you." Berwald whispered.

"Berwald," Adrian didn't finish his sentence. There wasn't anything to say, really. And he couldn't say anything—he could hardly breathe, let alone form a coherent sentence. His right shoulder was going numb under Mathias' weight, but Adrian didn't want to set him on the snowy earth, because he'd soon be seven feet beneath, resting in a coffin. And Adrian didn't want to bring that on so soon.

"Adrian," Berwald insisted, "Mathias would've 'ppreciated th's."

For a moment, Adrian instinctively tightened his grip on Mathias, but let go so that Berwald could help him. Mathias was placed next to Tino in the snow.

"What are we going to do?" Adrian's question was a flat, posed as a statement. Berwald shrugged and sank to his knees at Tino's side. He didn't answer the question.

Adrian felt a prod in his back, and he turned around to see his younger brother gazing somberly at him.

"Is he…" Freyr rarely left sentences hanging, but he cut himself off at seeing Adrian's lachryomosity. Adrian nodded, and Freyr looked down at the snow, frowning. Adrian grabbed him by the coat and pulled Freyr close to him and Berwald.

Matthew Williams sat next to his brother's body, staring at the ground and wiping his eyes. Arthur had flung himself over Alfred's body and wept disconsolately while Francis rhythmically, soothingly rubbed Arthur's back.

Feliks was stoic—his eyes were dry and his voice steady as he spoke to Toris.

"This is hell," Toris said.

"We've been through worse." Feliks said in a rather aloof tone.

"Yes, but it's not just us anymore. Everyone else is suffering with us, and that many people in such a situation is just awful." Toris pointed out. "I'd rather be the only one hurting than seeing so many others like this."

"Eight nations total were killed or died." Feliks said, changing the subject. "That's a massive casualty rate for us. I suppose Matthew will take Alfred's land and Katyusha will take Ivan and Natalia's."

"Something like that. And Berwald will take Tino's while Adrian claims Mathias'." Toris sighed. "I guess it'll be formally decided at a world meeting."

"God, this sucks." Feliks said with a dry laugh. He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head, watching the horizon. Sadness radiated from Feliks like heat from the sun. He concealed his desperate emotions masterfully, but Toris was not fooled.

"Feliks, it's okay to be sad, you know." Toris said gently, touching Feliks' shoulder.

Feliks, in an uncharacteristic reaction, flinched at Toris' well-meaning touch. And then, when Feliks turned his eyes to Toris, Toris felt cold. That wasn't the way Feliks looked at him before. Feliks glared at him now, sizing Toris up as he would an enemy.

"Don't touch me." Feliks said in a low vibrato. "And you know what, Toris? It's not okay to sad about something that couldn't be prevented and can't be fixed."

* * *

So sorry for the ridiculously long length and late update. The writer's block did clear up, through.

Soundtrack: Lital - Maor Levi

The story doesn't end here. Ivan's explanation comes in the next chapter.

Review...but no flames, please. If you're not satisfied, let me know and I will see what I can do. I'm just trying my hand at tragedy.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

And Arthur found himself where he had begun. He was on a commercial jet, relatively desolate for one flying to Venice in late March. The jet soared through the clear sky and the sun broke and dispersed any cloud that dared dampen the sun's sweet rays.

Upon landing and entering the city, Arthur noted that Venice and its outskirts were untouched, but desolate, as if the Black Plague had struck again. It became evident very quickly that Venice's inhabitants had either fled or elected to stay home, even in the gracious weather, out of fear. It had been announced that Ivan was dead. Moscow was promptly bombed to eradicate any other waiting surprises.

And now, Arthur found himself in a rather old hotel, where the world conference would take place. Once again, Arthur felt he was in a dream, for the city seemed so foreign. He was much too tired to summon real emotions and deep thoughts, so he simply lumbered into the hotel and barely had a moment to survey the old architecture before someone touched his arm. Arthur met Francis Bonnefoi's crisp by eyes when he looked up to see who touched him.

"How are you?" Francis asked nonchalantly, as if the two had been friends for a while.

"I'm well." Arthur replied stiffly. The scent of wine was on Francis' breath and it was not yet noon.

"I'm feeling nostalgic." Francis remarked. "Doesn't this day seem like the one Ivan bombed us?"

"I was thinking the same thing," Arthur said jadedly.

"Great minds think alike," Francis chuckled. "Do you think we're going to find out why this happened today?"

"No." Arthur said.

He took his place between France and the vacant chair on his left that belonged to Alfred. Ludwig was three chairs over, for Ivan and Gilbert were absent.

"It seems like all of us are here," Ludwig began. He determinedly ignored the many vacant seats in the room. "In that case, let's begin with Katyusha Braginskaya, who will shed some light on this situation."

Katyusha nervously straightened out and surveyed the deadpan faces of her audience before drawing breath to speak.

"Alfred Jones didn't have bad intentions, you see." Katyusha Braginskaya said as she ran a fingered the rim of her coffee mug. "At least I don't think he did. He had that comic-book mentality—a sort of innocence and set of morals." Katyusha winced at a sudden burst of pain in her leg. "When Ivan first captured him—"

"It would be helpful if you could start from that," Yao said thinly, adjusting his reading glasses. His pen hovered above a paper. Only Yao would bother to take notes. But he had the right idea.

"All right." Katyusha agreed with a nod. "Alfred and Ivan, as leaders of two large, populous, and powerful countries were meeting to discuss nuclear weapons, I believe. As you all know, they had the most. Here's where things start to get a little bit…odd. Alfred demanded that Ivan hand over his nukes to be stored in America for 'convenience' while still belonging to Ivan, Alfred had said. Ivan declined, and Alfred left in a huff to attend some fun event in town—"

"Typical," Arthur rolled his eyes.

"—and then, the next day, Ivan led Alfred, Natalia, some soldiers and me underground. He bombed Moscow. I remember the shaking earth. On that day, he also razed more cities across the Pacific Ocean and everything—America's population was severely decimated and even now conditions there are not fit for living. I believe he launched more warheads on that day than any other." Katyusha blinked back tears. "All the people that were killed. It's an atrocity of the highest caliber. Alfred was drugged and unconscious for a few hours while Moscow burned. When he woke, Ivan gave him these pictures—" Katyusha held a stack of photographs to pass around. "—they're large, famous American cities post-bombing. Alfred had caught on by now, and he was confused. He was, for once, trapped. Then, Ivan took Natalia, Alfred and me up to see Moscow. There was literally not one place I could see that wasn't on fire. Alfred was shocked at burning Moscow, and then Ivan closed him in. Alfred made threats to destroy Ivan, but Alfred had no army to destroy him with. Ivan proposed that Alfred join him to have power. Alfred agreed halfheartedly. He told me, later on, that he would be the hero."

"T-Typical," Arthur said tremulously. He hastily took a swig of tea. The tears in his eyes were the same the hot, bitter tea that steamed in the trembling teacup Arthur held.

"I'm thinking he was going to do what Adrian, Berwald, and Mathias did—join the enemy and turn on him as soon as possible. As you two know," Katyusha nodded in the direction of Berwald and Adrian, "it's not that easy."

"N't at all." Berwald agreed.

"Then I noticed a change in Alfred. It was almost immediate." Her gaze flickered to Feliks for a moment. "Alfred stopped smiling and laughing. He wasn't happy anymore. I figured he was just mourning for his citizens, as I was. But it became very clear he wasn't. Alfred appeared to be very serious about capturing other nations."

"Why nations and not regular people?" Xiang asked sharply. He owed Katyusha his life, in a sense.

"We're special. We hardly age, have resistance to illnesses…we're not quite superhuman, just human with extra health bonuses." Katyusha said. "Ivan wanted the nations to work for him, but also as cutting boards for him and sister. They loved torture. But Natalia tortured out of sheer bloodlust while Ivan tortured for another reason besides sadism." Katyusha brushed wispy hair out of her eyes. "Actually, it reminds me of Newton's third law—for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Ivan, Natalia, and I have always had the short end of the stick. Life kind of sucked for us for a few centuries. So this longstanding frustration was taken out on the prisoners. Ivan wanted to feel like he was actually impacting someone, because all we hear about is America, you know? He needed to. But that doesn't make his action right. Second, you may have noticed the base was strangely symmetrical. This is because Ivan always wanted order in life. There have always been wars, riots, and other tumultuous events happening in Russia. Lots of corruption. The passages were made to feel claustrophobic because that was a reminder to him that humanity is to blame for his troubles and that forgiving was not an option…for him, anyway. The base was built in the forties."

"No wonder," Sven snorted, tugging at his collar. "It looked old. He's been stocking nukes up for about seventy years, hasn't he?"

"You have a good eye and a good guess—correct. Ivan had been stockpiling." Katyusha said with a vague smile. "There's an explanation for everything in that place. All in all, Ivan was just mentally unstable. Alfred was not. It was revealed to me later why Alfred suddenly became rather depressed after joining Ivan. Were you aware that there was a terrorist group planning to do what Ivan did? Besides the Taliban and Al-Qaeda. This group was very well hidden."

"I didn't hear about it, no." Ludwig said with a shake of his head.

"Me either," Kiku said with a scowl.

"Right—America's intel was the only one to know. Anyway, this group was planning on doing what Ivan did. But to a lesser degree. Alfred wanted to save everyone from these terrorists, of course, before anyone else, so he'd shine as the hero once again. But Ivan got there first and destroyed the world on a whim—here, I think Alfred was disappointed in himself for having Ivan one-up him. Alfred has usually been one of the first to do things. After the bombing, Alfred knew this didn't mean the terrorist group was dead or disbanded, so Alfred took it upon himself to save as many nations as he could by 'capturing' them." Katyusha smiled reservedly. "So, you guys were lucky."

"Then why were we treated so badly?" Feliks asked bitterly, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Alfred didn't want to give his intentions away." Katyusha explained. "And that's it. I don't have more to say about Alfred. His intentions were good."

"Then why didn't he say anything to me when I held him at gunpoint?" Arthur's demand was responded to with a shrug and apologetic smile from Katyusha.

"Human nature," Katyusha said jadedly. "He was going to die, anyway. Who would listen to him? It'd be...well, too much like a comic book."

Arthur clasped his hands reflexively and looked down at the rapidly blurring tabletop.

"Shit." Lovino finally spoke up from the end of the table. A bandage was on his neck and bruises were arrayed on his body, black, blue, green, and purple. Other than that, he was recovering well. A long surgical scar was present on his abdomen and his left leg was in a cast that climbed up to the middle of his thigh. But he was breathing, alive. He spoke again, "This situation sucks. Dammit. I can't believe this."

"I want to stab myself and wake up from this nightmare," Feliks said flatly.

"Don't be stupid," Sven snorted. "Nothing's going to change."

"Everyone needs to calm down." Ludwig said. He glanced at the empty seat next to him and looked away. Any reminder of his brother drove a nail deeper into his heart. "Since there really isn't much we can do, I think it would be best if we all started over."

"Rebuild our land?" Antonio raised an eyebrow. "Well, it's all we can do. But It'll take centuries to get where are now, at least in terms of population."

"Technological developments will have to be put on hold as well," Kiku said thoughtfully.

"Let's just be thankful that we're alive," Francis said calmly, speaking with clear reason for once. "We can do this."

"Thank you, Miss Braginskaya." Ludwig said wearily. "That certainly made things a lot more clear."

There was a susurrus of whispers in the room, along with a few well-stifled sniffles.

"How is Gilbert?" Francis asked Ludwig in a rather begrudging tone.

Ludwig paused. He wasn't expecting to be spoken to in the lull of the meeting, much less by Francis.

"Gilbert's condition is improving." Ludwig said with a slight nod. The last time he saw Gilbert five days ago in Bonn, he was barely responsive. Needles of all calibers were pierced into his arm and chest, a mask was strapped over his face. Gilbert was thin and pale. Ludwig blinked a few times to bring him back to reality and nodded.

"Glad to hear that," Francis said. He frowned and stared at the floor.

"People, we're not done here." Sven beat on the smooth wood surface on the table with his hand, commanding attention. "There is one pressing question left—"

"There sure is," Feliks said darkly. He glowered at everyone from behind his blond hair, falling over his face. "What the hell do we do now?"

"Not that question, imbecile." Sven snapped. He sighed; a puff of sweet smelling smoke seeped from his lips. He brushed his hair out of his face. For once, it fell naturally over his eyes. "The real question—what are we going to do with the spare land?"

Tension congealed in the room.

"Yes, that's a very important matter." Ludwig agreed. But he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. "Adrian, you will take Mathias' land, I presume. And Berwald, you will take Tino's."

The two nodded solemnly, maintaining a steady composure.

"Matthew, will you take Alfred's?" Ludwig said.

"Yeah." Matthew said quietly.

"Heracles will take Sadik's, Yao will have Yong Soo's." Ludwig said, jotting down notes on a stray piece of paper. "Toris and Miss Braginskaya, will you claim the lands of Eduard, Raivis, Natalia, and Ivan?"

They agreed. And all was settled.

"I don't know about you people, but I'm hauling ass back to my land." Sven said dismissively. He stood up from his seat and offered his arm to Anna. The two departed without a word.

"There isn't more to do." Elizaveta said calmly. "We'll stay in touch with each other and see what happens."

;;;;;

Ludwig watched the arrow make a graceful arch past each number as the elevator went up to the seventh floor, where Gilbert waited for him. The doors opened a Ludwig stepped out, making his way down the old narrow hallway to Gilbert's room. Ludwig eased the door open and smiled uneasily at his older brother.

Gilbert sat at the edge of the bed. His clothing had been packed into a nice little bag and he was showered and clean and ready to be discharged. Gilbert barely looked at Ludwig when he entered. He deliberately averted his eyes.

"Took you long enough," he mumbled, maintaining his eyes downcast.

"The flight was delayed." Ludwig explained, approaching Gilbert. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah." He snorted. "Finally."

Ludwig held out his arm for Gilbert, who scoffed at the nurse's suggestion to use a wheelchair. He looped his thin, bruised arm in Ludwig's and teetered down the hallway.

Gilbert was so thin another hole had to be made in his belt so that his pants would stay up, and he didn't fill out his uniform, not even a little bit the way he used to. Gilbert was bony and ashen and had a pained, angry look to him.

"Gilbert, my brother, how are you feeling?" Ludwig asked once they were out of the hospital.

"I'm fine." Gilbert said under his breath. "It's nice to be out of that shithole."

Gilbert dumped himself into the seat of Ludwig's BMW and sulked. Ludwig didn't press him for details on the hospital stay. He was very touchy today.

"T-This isn't f-fucking fair," Gilbert whispered, one hour into the ride. They were not far from their destination now—Ludwig's country home would be ideal for a convalescent. Gilbert would be able to recover in the crisp, fresh air. He'd be far from the rest of the destruction that Germany bore. Black, open wounds, wrought with death and destruction.

"What isn't fair?" Ludwig said gently. Ludwig put all of his focus on the road. He was much too tired to focus on anything else, and a lapse in concentration could land them both in the hospital.

"Everything," Gilbert's scratchy voice wavered.

"Yes. I know." Ludwig said wearily. He eased his foot on the accelerator upon entering the speedy flow of the highway.

"Everything." Gilbert said again. "I hate everything."

It's the medication, Ludwig thought. He glanced at Gilbert and was in for quite a surprise. Tears coursed down Gilbert's face, following the curves of his cheekbone and the pointy tip of his nose. He leaned his head against the window, slumped against the door. Ludwig hadn't seen Gilbert shed tears in…in hundreds of years. Not when they lost the First or Second World Wars, not even then. If Ludwig remembered correctly, the last time Gilbert had wept like this was the day Friedrich II died in the eighteenth century. It all seemed so uncharacteristic. Gilbert was a relatively stoic man, like any other German. But unlike his younger brother, Gilbert knew how to have fun.

"It's just the medication," Ludwig said softly, patiently.

"N-N-No, it's n-not." Gilbert growled. "God damn it. It wasn't supposed to end this way. People weren't supposed to die, Vash wasn't supposed to kill Ivan, fucking Tino and Mathias weren't supposed to leave Berwald and Adrian alone, a-and Alfred wasn't supposed to die, either."

"Then who was supposed to kill Ivan?" Ludwig asked. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"No, Luddy. I was supposed to kill Ivan." Gilbert said, breathing tremulously as his feelings threatened to possess him. He made a futile attempt to wipe aggressive tears from his cheeks.

"Oh, Gilbert." Ludwig sighed. He was at a loss for words and actions. He didn't know what to do with his tearful brother.

"Fucking Adrian and Berwald, are they even functional right now? Goddamn Vikings r-running around and k-killing shit as a family for centuries and even through these days."

"How did you find out about that?" Ludwig asked. "You were barely alive when we left Moscow."

"Just because I'm in the hospital doesn't mean I'm cut off from the whole world." Gilbert snorted. "F-Feliciano told me."

Of course. The two were friends. Ludwig shifted uncomfortably. Gilbert only reminded Ludwig of the look on Berwald's face when he saw Heracles with Tino's dead body over his shoulders. Ludwig would never forget it. Simply remembering that expression, horror at reality, weighed him down, and even scared him. And Adrian was in a similar condition in finding Mathias dead.

"They seemed to be fine at the conference, yes." Ludwig said tensely. Adrian and Berwald showed no more emotion than usual, but wore black. Everyone wore black.

"How can you say that?" Gilbert snapped, stifling eruptive sobs. "They—not just them, fuck it—T-Toris and Matthew and Heracles and Katyusha lost their soul mates, lovers, best friends, brothers of many centuries. I-I don't want to be a nation anymore…"

"Gilbert, calm down. This is uncharacteristic of you. I'm worried." Ludwig admitted, glancing at Gilbert. "You should know that these things happen."

"Well, no shit." Gilbert said savagely. "I j-just don't know what to do now, Ludwig."

"Roderich, Elizaveta, Vash, and Liese are at the house." Ludwig said. He hoped that would calm Gilbert down, since he was social by nature. "Everything will be all right."

"Stop lying." Gilbert moaned.

"Listen to me, Gilbert."

"No!"

"Gilbert, please." Ludwig insisted.

Ludwig rolled up to their country home and leaned his head against the steering wheel, ripping the key out of ignition.

"Gilbert, calm down." Ludwig said. "I will listen to you once you gather your thoughts."

But Gilbert was disconsolate. He could not say a single word.

"This is so unlike you," Ludwig remarked. How painful it was to see Gilbert so distraught, especially with his current physical condition. Emotionally and physically, Gilbert was in shambles.

Ludwig clambered out of his seat and went around to passenger side. He opened the door and tugged Gilbert's arm. Gilbert yielded to Ludwig's pulls and leaned heavily on Ludwig as the two trekked up to the house. Roderich opened the opened the door and laid eyes on the pitiful, tearful Gilbert.

"What happened?" Roderich demanded, eyes sharp.

And all Ludwig could offer was a shrug. He too was dreadfully confused by his brother's sudden spill of emotion. Carefully, Ludwig led Gilbert to the old couch.

"I-I know i-i-it's unl-like m-m-me," Gilbert gasped. He seemed to want to continue, but feeble words fluttered on his lips. "I don't know w-why I'm l-like this."

"You need uninterrupted sleep. We can talk tomorrow." Ludwig said, draping a warm blanket over Gilbert. Surely Gilbert hadn't rested, with the nurses and doctors coming in so often to check his vitals.

"B-But—"

"That's enough," Ludwig said gently, patting his brother's bony arm.

"Go to sleep," Roderich commanded, aiming a grave look at Gilbert over the rims of his glasses.

"Where are Antonio and Francis?" Gilbert asked, turning his brilliant crimson gaze to Ludwig. His chapped lips trembled and tears hung from his eyelashes. Gilbert looked so stunningly childlike.

"They are safe in their homelands." Ludwig answered. He sank into an armchair nearby and watched his brother keenly. Gilbert's crying jag was tapering, as his breathing regained stability and the tears fell slower down those white cheeks. He absentmindedly toyed with the corner of the blanket in his hands. The sunlight lit his skin aglow.

"Better?" Ludwig asked softly.

"Yeah." Gilbert mumbled.

"Good." Ludwig smiled very slightly. "Don't scare me like that."

"Sorry." Gilbert said.

"Gilbert, I think I know what's bothering you." Ludwig said in a hesitant, clipped tone. "The doctors…what did they tell you?"

"They told me to be careful, the usual shit." Gilbert said.

"They told me different." Ludwig mumbled. He swallowed the constriction in his throat and repressed a shudder, for his blood had run cold at hearing Gilbert's words. Roderich took a seat in another armchair, surveying Gilbert critically, as he expected Gilbert to spontaneously combust.

"The doctors told me that you'd be permanently incapacitated." Ludwig said flatly.

"Newsflash, Luddy: I've _been _incapacited for a couple hundred years now. TB is a tough illness, you know, and pneumonia and smoke doesn't work out well. If I weren't a nation I'd be dead." Gilbert said.

"Yes, but the doctors told me you'd—"

"Let me finish, West." Gilbert said, adopting a mockingly serious tone. "I'm know I'm in deep shit with my illness and all. Why do you think I avoid playing soccer with Antonio and Francis, and why do you think I live with you, a neatfreak? I know how any exercise kills me and I know your house is so clean there won't be any dust to bother me. Now can I go to bed?"

"The doctors told me you barely have lungs. You could die at any time." Ludwig said with a frown. No, not his older brother. He couldn't imagine a peaceful life without Gilbert. But Ludwig refused to think about that until the time came.

"Fuck what the doctors say." Gilbert smirked, but Ludwig detected a torrent of tears building in Gilbert's eyes. "I'm really tired. So all of you shut up and let me sleep."

He rolled over and left it at that. Ludwig looked up at Roderich, whose violet eyes burned as he demanded an explanation. Ludwig rose from the armchair and strode into the kitchen with Roderich nearly pressing on his heels and snatched a beer bottle from the fridge. He took a long swig and waved a hand, indicated Roderich to ask away.

"What is wrong with him?" Roderich asked, folding his arms. "He's behaving very strangely."

"Yes. Gilbert is sleep deprived and he's under the effects of several medications." Ludwig replied perfunctorily.

"Ludwig, tell me the truth." Roderich said sternly, dropping his voice to a whisper. He approached Ludwig. "How much longer does he have?"

"Gilbert has..." Ludwig swallowed. His throat had suddenly became tight and parched. "Two weeks to two months. No more than that."

Roderich blanched and dropped the fork he held into a delectable slice of cake on the kitchen table. He remained determinedly expressionless, but his hands shook. He retracted his long, graceful fingers into a tight fist and finally looked at Ludwig. He opened his mouth to say something but shook his head and removed his glasses to rub his eyes.

"I don't even know what to say." Roderich mumbled.

"Me either." Ludwig said weakly. He leaned heavily against the counter and sighed.

"Does Gilbert know?" Roderich asked hoarsely.

"I assume so." Ludwig muttered. He didn't want to bring the topic up. Too painful.

"Death does not wait, nor does it discriminate." Roderich said. "Should I tell Elizaveta?"

"Please do. I'll inform Feliciano, Francis, Antonio...his friends." Germany finished lamely. He couldn't stand thinking about it. His older brother slept on the couch, wasting away with each breath. How many did he have left? Ludwig banished the thought. He was already obsessive enough. Ludwig downed his beer and reached for the phone. He meandered to the fridge and found the paper of 'important numbers' as determined by Gilbert and written in his curly, strange penmanship. First on the list was Antonio. Ludwig thumbed Antonio's number into his phone and began his duty as the harbinger.

* * *

Review?


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

* * *

Matthew Williams stood amongst the ruins of Washington DC. The ground had been razed flat by the bombings save for a noble flagpole that a charred American flag clung to. The fifty stars gleamed in the sunlight and the stripes remained vibrant in color as they gracefully swayed and folded into each other with the wind's mercurial bluster.

The wind carried white cherry blossoms that mesmerized Matthew as they twirled around him. For once, he did not smell ashes but the pleasant smell of flowers and new life. Perhaps this was the aroma of the future, perhaps these blossoms promised good things. Matthew caught one in his hand and tucked it into his pocket.

This was his land now. North America now belonged to him.

Where to begin?

;;;;;

Ludwig waited for a sign of life on the other line. At speaking the news to Antonio, Antonio had fallen silent. If blaring TV in and the cadences of Lovino's voice hadn't been flitting in the background, Ludwig would've assumed Antonio had hung up. Ludwig heard a breath from Antonio—finally.

"No puede ser." Antonio sounded spooked but relatively stoic, especially for one as hot blooded as him. Ludwig was pleased and impressed at the fact Antonio could control himself. The last thing he wanted was to hear tears.

Ludwig didn't know what he had said, so he simply said "Yes. It is so."

"Oh my God." Antonio drew a choppy breath. "W-What am I going to do? What are you going to do?"

"These things happen." Ludwig said stonily.

"But it does not make you sad?" Antonio prompted defensively.

"Moving on," Ludwig harrumphed to loosen his throat, "I recommend you come at once. Gilbert's days are numbered…also, bring Feliciano."

"R-Right. I'll be there soon."

Ludwig quickly hung up and retreated into the house, stopping short, as Gilbert blocked his entrance, smiling wryly.

"What? You really think I'll die, Ludwig?" Gilbert questioned with a short, breathy laugh. "Come on. I've been through worse."

"Gilbert, as much as I'm aware of that fact, the doctors are right." Ludwig said firmly.

"Nah, I got this." Gilbert said. "Relax."

"Easier said than done," Ludwig said coldly.

;;;;;

Arthur was surprised by his own emotional stability upon trekking the ruins of London. With each step, an image from the past flashed before his eyes, fleeting. He remembered fears and joys and losses and victories as he passed by mountainous rubble. Glass gleamed in the sun's generous light and warmed Arthur so that he threw his green jacket into what was left of the Thames. A gnawing sting buzzed inside him and his eyes watered with the stench of decay, but an ironic, mocking breeze brought a pleasant scent. Arthur did not know where that smell came from, or what it was, but it was soothing and soft and kept fury at bay.

He felt calm, the way he should have. The struggle was over. Death was irreversible, and Arthur was already awash with sorrow so that he had nothing left in him to mourn. Arthur was pleasantly powerless. He resided alone in dead London, but felt overwhelmingly happy to the point where he let a smile slip. He didn't understand why smiled, lying upon death, destruction, and decay, but he did, and sincerely hoped no one stood nearby to see his slip in control.

Then Alfred came to mind. The smile fell at once and a brooding frown replaced the innocent little grin. Alfred F. Jones. Arthur would never see him again, not even in his nightly dreams. He'd never hear that grating, annoying laugh or Alfred's naïve grammar slips and pervasive American slang. He'd never hold such a sweet little baby, and never taste Alfred's optimistic determination that so brought a sour taste to Arthur's mouth. Arthur wouldn't smell the sweat on Alfred's trusty leather jacket or the stench of burgers and sodas, both of which roiled Arthur's stomach. But he'd miss every bit of Alfred. Because in dying, Alfred had taken bits of Arthur with him—Arthur's petulance had dissipated, as well as his usual stress. But that didn't mean Alfred brought those feelings of agitation to Arthur. Arthur always felt agitated and bothered by Alfred because Alfred was so radiant and strong. And Arthur admired him, to an extent.

Then Arthur heard a loud crunching sound. He froze and held his breath, waiting for the sound to come again. Now the crunching had become rhythmic, and came closer. Arthur sat up and let out a groan of dismay and surprise, seeing that it was only Francis and Sven. Suspicion settled and he looked at their hands for any weapons. None.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur demanded.

"Making sure you're not suicidal." Francis replied snidely.

"I'm not. I'm just thinking." Arthur murmured. "Why the hell are you here?"

"We have a proposition for you, Kirkland." Sven said lazily. "Join us. We'll all work to get our shit together and fix our nations."

"You can't rebuild your land alone." Francis said gently.

Arthur broke eye contact and absentmindedly ran a thumb along a glass shard he toyed with in his hands. This piece of glass was clean, clear, perfect. He gasped as the glass sank into his thumb, drawing blood. He tossed the shard back onto the rubble and pressed his thumb to his lips and he sucked the blood away.

"I can't rebuild my land without a large amount of people." Arthur said aloofly.

"You can't fix anything with that shitty attitude." Sven snorted. "So, will you join us or not?"

"Have you noticed," Arthur began with a dry laugh, "that we're in a cycle of sorts? We always end up together."

"Look at a map. If you still wonder why, you're retarded. I want an answer—now." Sven pressed.

"Yes. I will join you." Arthur conceded. Ah, why the hell not? He felt lighthearted and daring on that warm day in April. "On the condition that you two don't try to slip your influences into my place."

"Only if you promise to do the same." Francis said.

"Deal." Arthur said. He stood up to full height and fell in step with Francis and Sven. But not without one last look at dreary London.

"Farewell." Arthur mumbled. He kneeled on a patch of clear ground and stooped to kiss the land that had been his own for over a millennium. He rose to full height and followed Sven and Francis to wherever the hell they were going. Soon, he'd see London again.

;;;;;

The arrival of Antonio, Francis, and Feliciano had livened the house up a bit, since with them they brought singing, dancing, good wine, and their natural charm. They spent much time outside, in the fresh air, catching sunlight. Even Ludwig had been coaxed to spend time outdoors with his friends. In the evening, Antonio, Francis, and Gilbert would reminisce with laughter and tears on Antonio's part. But Ludwig had never felt so awful in his life. He was happy to be with them, but terrified each time Gilbert went into a coughing fit, for fear that it would be his last. And on the ninth day, it was. Ludwig had been sitting with Gilbert in the living room, conversing with him, when Ludwig simply knew. The surprised, pained expression that had presented itself at that moment on Gilbert's face was enough. Gilbert had gazed into Ludwig's eyes with a sad, urgent gleam. And Ludwig watched, heartbroken, as Gilbert loosened his tie and tugged at the collar of his shirt as if it would help him breathe.

"It's time." Ludwig said to himself.

Everyone had assembled in the room, white-faced and disbelieving. But oddly calm. Roderich had stopped wringing his hands, Elizaveta had stopped the cheap, habitual little smiles she sent at Ludwig in trying to act sympathetic, and France poured his glass of wine out. Antonio clasped his hands and Feliciano's eyes had gone wide.

"I'm not going to give a fancy dying speech," Gilbert said with a wave of his trembling white hand. "So, here's the deal: Francis, I give you Gilbird. Antonio, you get my favorite sword. I know how much you always wanted that thing. Liz, you get that frying pan I stole from you some hundred years ago. I'm giving you my clothes, Roderich, since you dress like a loser. Feliciano, you can have my electric guitar. And Ludwig…" Gilbert turned his burning red eyes to Ludwig and smiled slightly. "Well, I'm not leaving anything to you."

"That's fine." Ludwig flatly. "I don't care. It would just clutter m-my house…" he couldn't finish his sentence. At remembering his Berlin mansion, he realized most of the clutter in the house belonged to Gilbert. Without Gilbert, his houses would be spotless, not an object deviating from its place the way it normally did when Prussia was around.

"I thought I'd last forever." Prussia's voice fell into a soft, breathy whisper. His lips curled into a shaky smile. "But I guess not."

No one replied—no one had anything in them, no words, to say. Roderich looked sullen, Elizaveta appeared stoic, and Francis, Feliciano and Antonio were already in tears. Ludwig was balanced somewhere in between—he fluctuated from teary eyes to solid composure, watching his brother take his last breaths.

"Are you in pain?" Elizaveta asked nervously.

Gilbert shook his head and let his eyes fall closed. Ludwig bit his lip. He knew they'd never open again, at that point, and the realization stung in his chest and in his eyes. Ludwig took a staggering breath. With his heart pounding in his trembling fingers, Ludwig took hold of Gilbert's cold, limp hands. He could feel no heartbeat—or was it simply because his own hands, veiny and strong, could not stay still long enough to detect one? Gilbert's chest would rise, fall, and stop. As if he held his breath jealously, rationing them to live longer like the soldier he was.

"One more thing— bury me in Berlin." Gilbert said.

"Of course."

"Ludwig, thanks for everything—helping me out, letting me live in your house, giving me beer, the usual." Gilbert whispered tremulously as shy tears slipped out of his closed eyes. "I'm really going to miss you."

"I'll miss you, too, brother." Ludwig murmured back. He squeezed Gilbert's hand. A sliver of hope shone through—perhaps Gilbert was just toying with them in his habitual ways.

"Maybe I'll see you again." Gilbert said.

"Yes, maybe…" Ludwig trailed off.

"I love you, little bro."

Ludwig brushed searing tears from his pale cheeks and nodded. He couldn't speak. And Gilbert was silent. His chest rose and fell. Ludwig waited for one more rise. Nothing. That was his final breath that hung in the night air. Ludwig would never hear another one of those breaths, often punctuated by his characteristic coughs and frequent sneezes.

Ludwig would've recoiled at the many arms of comfort that came around him at that moment, but he couldn't find the strength in him. He was alone again. Ludwig placed his ear to Gilbert's chest, in hopes of hearing a little bit of life. No, Gilbert was hollow. But Ludwig couldn't summon strength or motivation to pick himself up from his dead brother, so he stayed there, biting back sobs and trying to keep himself as composed as possible. Someone's hands were on his back—Francis', perhaps, even Feliciano's, judging by the familiarity of the touch—and Antonio stood at Gilbert's head, crying bitterly. Roderich had sunk into an armchair and buried his head in Elizaveta's shoulder. Her eyes were also wet.

Ludwig panicked. He hadn't been alone in years. His house hadn't been quiet, not with Gilbert and Feliciano and anyone else that the two brought along. He used to make the best of those moments of silence, when everyone was gone, out shopping or on short vacations. But the silence would stick this time, alone in his country house, and the silence would congeal like the blood in Gilbert's frozen veins.

Ludwig didn't know what to do. Even with all the people surrounding him, he felt forlorn.

And it was Ludwig who pulled a white sheet over Gilbert's body two hours later. He looked into his brother's face and pressed his hand against Gilbert's cheek. Already, they were cold and stiff. Ludwig shook his head and pulled the sheet over Gilbert. He dumped his body into an armchair and stared at the outline of Gilbert's body under the sheets until tears blurred his vision and he could no longer see.

"Ludwig?"

A familiar whisper. Ludwig's eyes snapped open, roving Prussia's body for any signs of life. He looked to his left and saw Feliciano. Chagrin gnawed at Ludwig. It was only Feliciano.

"Ludwig, have you been here all night?" Feliciano asked. Feliciano's warm, light brown eyes radiated sympathy.

"Yes." Ludwig said gruffly, rubbing his eyes.

"Ludwig, I'll stay with you." Feliciano said tearfully. He patted Ludwig's arm and sat in the armchair next to Ludwig's.

"Stop crying." Ludwig commanded. And then he added, gently, "It'll get me started again."

* * *

Short chapter is short. I apologize for that.

I feel I've forgotten how to write.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

* * *

Ludwig held the phone to his ear. He sighed loudly into the receiver, only to hear his sigh return to him—yet, it made Ludwig feel like he wasn't completely alone. On the third ring, he answered.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Feliciano." Ludwig paused. He didn't know what to say. The conversation he had planned so carefully in his head had evaporated at hearing Feliciano's hello. Ludwig said lamely, "How are you?"

"Oh—Ludwig. I—I'm fine." Feliciano said hesitantly.

A TV was on in the background.

"Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something." Ludwig began to wander around his house aimlessly, the way he always did when he was on the phone. "Why didn't you come to Gilbert's funeral?"

Feliciano sighed.

"I couldn't." he said weakly. "I just had to leave the following morning. It was just too much."

"I'm not mad," Ludwig said gently, close to a whisper. He bit his lip. Of course anger nearly compelled him to fling the phone at the wall, of course his disappointment made him want to damn Feliciano's name. But Ludwig didn't want to talk about it. Gilbert's funeral passed one month ago—everyone attended, except for Feliciano. And Ludwig waited and waited for him to come, but he never did. They hadn't spoken since the night of Gilbert's passing.

"I'm sorry." Feliciano said tremulously. "Really, Ludwig, I'm sorry."

"I miss you." Ludwig admitted.

"I miss you, too." Feliciano murmured, barely audible over the television in the background.

Ludwig could almost hear the tears sliding down Feliciano's sallow cheeks. But Feliciano kept his voice even and almost monotonous—it haunted Ludwig to hear him speak this way.

"S-So…how is everyone else?" Feliciano asked.

"Roderich and Elizaveta spend not a moment apart. Vash and Liese have returned to the Alps." Ludwig said mechanically. Then he gave a dry laugh and added, "I'm all alone here."

"Me too." Feliciano said. Then, hurriedly, "Listen, I have to go. Let's talk soon, yeah?"

"Of course."

"Well…bye."

"Right." Ludwig waited. He wanted to at least hear Feliciano speak. There was something soothing about the lilt of his voice and the tones of his accent. It was so familiar. Ludwig wanted to hear familiarity, now that Gilbert's characteristic coughing, sneezing, and loud humming were absent in the house.

"Nobody remembers me." Feliciano muttered.

Ludwig gave a dry laugh and collapsed onto his bed. He shouldn't have been laughing, but he laughed with relief at the fact he was not the only one that felt so alone. He smiled and traced the seams of his bedding with the tip of his finger.

"France and Spain haven't visited. Poland doesn't say hi. Romano doesn't like me anymore." Feliciano said dejectedly. He took a breath.

"No one has visited me, either." Ludwig said.

"I bet you've lost weight, the way you always do when something doesn't go your way." Feliciano said with a forced, but familiar chuckle—it was the nervous chuckle that always followed after an abrupt change of topic. "Remember the Great War?"

"Well…" Germany slipped a thumb under his leather belt, loose around his hips even though it was a tight as the belt itself would allow. He drew a quiet breath of surprise and bolted off the bed, planting himself in front of the mirror and hastily unbuttoning his shirt with his shaking right hand.

"I'll make you pasta and give you all the best food I can make." Feliciano said.

"Feliciano, don't worry about it." Ludwig said distractedly. He shed his shirt and stared at himself. Veins circled his arms, popping out and forming long, smooth mountain rages on those muscular arms. Ludwig was a fit man, well-proportioned, with a steady workout regime and even steadier sustenance of beer, sausage, and cheese. But any fat that remained, along with some muscle, had melted right off of him.

Ever since the death of Gilbert, beer had taken a sour nauseating taste. Nothing interested or appealed to him anymore—except for Feliciano's voice. In those minutes of listening to him speak, Ludwig listened to the rise and fall of Feliciano's voice, the warm tones as he finished a sentence and every breath Feliciano took. His English seemed choppier and faster and more convoluted than usual—he hadn't spoken English in a while. Now that Ludwig thought about it, he hadn't either. He must've sounded so boorish to Feliciano.

"Ludwig? Are you there?"

"Yes—sorry." Ludwig said distractedly. "Yes, well, you're in Venice, is that right? I'll visit right away."

"No, no, stay where you are." Feliciano said with uncharacteristic forcefulness. "Stay in your land and be strong. "

"But—"

"It'd be weak and traitorous of you to leave your home for me." Feliciano said with contempt. The note of scorn in Feliciano's voice brought goose bumps to Ludwig's skin.

"We could've used this sudden bravery some seventy years ago." Ludwig mumbled, resisting a laugh at his own joke. Oh, but listening to Feliciano speak with empowerment nearly busted Ludwig's hear with pride. The experience of this burning world had built Feliciano up, it seemed. More than ever Ludwig wanted to see him, to speak to the man Feliciano had finally become.

"While the world smolders, our hearts are on fire." Feliciano said wisely. As he stared into his clear blue eyes in the mirror, Ludwig nearly saw Feliciano's gleaming eyes and radiant smile. Ludwig smiled back.

"Mark my words—from the ashes we will rise again, Ludwig." Feliciano said with eerie calm.

And Ludwig stared at his pitiful reflection, alone again.


End file.
